Some Things To Work On
by Kelmin
Summary: In "Hitting the Wall," Mike Stoker mentioned to Roy that he'd been to see Dr. Pritchard the psychiatrist as well. What was that all about? Rated T for language, angst, and themes. If you'd be put off by one of the characters not being straight, then you should give this one a miss.
1. Office

A/N: I just couldn't resist bringing Dr. Pritchard back.

Disclaimer: The show doesn't belong to me. I just take the characters out for a spin, profit-free, and put 'em back how I found 'em.

Some Things To Work On

Chapter 1: Office

I didn't want to be there—but that was probably no secret.

"Come on in," he said. "Have a seat anywhere you like."

I looked around—it looked more like a living room than an office. A clean, orderly, masculine living room, but with no personal effects in it whatsoever. I guess I wasn't really sure what I'd expected, but it wasn't this. And he wanted me to pick where to sit? Great. That was probably some kind of test. The couch was no good—what if he sat next to me? I took a seat in an armchair—that looked safe enough.

"The first thing I like to ask people," he continued, "is what they prefer to be called. If you want me to call you Mr. Stoker, that's fine. If you want me to call you Michael, that's fine too. Or any other name you prefer."

"Mike," I said automatically. "What do I call you?" I surprised myself by asking.

"Some people prefer to call me Bill, because that makes this feel less like a medical experience. Which it's not. I'm a medical doctor, so I can prescribe medication if needed, but what we're mostly going to be doing here is talking. But if you prefer to call me Dr. Pritchard, that's fine as well. Whatever makes you most comfortable."

"Okay," I answered vaguely. To be honest, I probably wasn't going to call him anything. Calling somebody by their first name kind of feels personal to me. I never minded what people call me, but if I call someone by their name, that's different, for some reason. And I didn't really think I could get away with my firehouse strategy of calling the guys by their last names.

He looked at me, and for a second I thought he was going to call me on my evasion, start in with the questions. Ask me why I didn't answer him. But he just let it go, and I'm pretty sure he did it on purpose. To set me at ease.

It worked, a little bit. But I knew the real fun would start soon.

Don't get me wrong—I wasn't gonna try to sabotage his efforts. I knew I needed help—I mean, that thing the other day really freaked me out. And if that kind of thing keeps happening, I won't be able to do my job. And if I can't do my job, where am I? Nowhere, that's where.

Nobody, that's who.

So when he started in with the obvious first question, I didn't try to pull any funny stuff.

"Mike, I'd like you to tell me what brings you here today. Of course I know your Captain sent you here, and I have his report on what happened yesterday. But what I'd like to hear is what I can help you with."

Of course I was ready with an answer to that question.

"I freaked out. I panicked. Luckily it didn't endanger lives, but it could have. So it can't keep happening, if I want to keep my job. Which I do."

Crap. That didn't really come out the way I wanted it to. He wrote something down. Great.

"As I said, I have Captain Stanley's report, but I'd like to hear your description of what happened. Just to make sure we're all on the same page."

I was ready for that one, too.

"It was a routine call—a fire in a garage. We got there fast, there was a hydrant right in front of the house, and the garage was detached from the house—all best-case scenarios. I put the engine in pump gear—no problem. I hit the hydrant while Chet and Marco stretched a line to the garage—no problem. But as soon as they called for water, as soon as they got near that garage, I just froze. I knew exactly what I needed to do—that wasn't the problem. I had my hand on the control for that line, ready to pull, but I was completely frozen. I couldn't move."

Dr. Pritchard nodded. "Okay—then what happened?"

"Uh, Captain Stanley asked me if I was okay, and I couldn't even say anything. He asked me again, and then he just took my hand off the control and worked the pump himself. I … don't even think Chet and Marco noticed anything was wrong."

"Then what did you do?"

"I, uh, I guess I just stood there. I don't know, really. I couldn't really hear anything that was going on—it was like there was this rushing sound in my ears. The engine's really loud, but I couldn't even hear that." I didn't like the next part of the story, but I figured he wouldn't let me stop there.

"And after the fire got put out—then what?"

"Uh, there wouldn't really be much overhaul to do in a job like that. There was nothing to salvage, and it was a really small building, and so the guys just made sure there were no hot spots that could rekindle in the walls or the roof, and then we were done." I revised that last part. "They were done. Because I couldn't do a damned thing."

"Were you still frozen, as you put it, after the fire was out?"

"No," I admitted. "But Cap sat me down by the pump panel and told me to stay put. I could see the other two, Chet and Marco, looking back to see what was going on when Cap went to help with the overhaul and I didn't. Overhaul didn't take long, since the place was so small. Cap wouldn't let me help pack the hose up again, or anything. He just made me sit there. I felt like an idiot."

"And then you went back to the station, correct?"

"Yeah—and of course, Cap wouldn't let me drive. He drove back, and I had his seat. And needless to say, it was straight to his office when we were back in quarters."

"Was he angry?"

"No. Just—concerned."

"What did you tell him?"

"Just what I told you—that I froze, and I didn't know why. And he asked me if I thought it would happen again, and I was honest—I said I didn't know."

Pritchard looked down at his notes. "There are two other members of your shift—the paramedics. Were they on this call? I didn't hear you mention them."

"No—they don't get called out for something small like that. I think they might've been on a run when we got back—yeah, they were, I remember now. The bay was empty when we got back."

"DeSoto, and Gage, right?"

I nodded. "Well, usually. Gage was out that day, so it was his sub. A guy from B-shift pulled a double, I think." Not much more to say about that, so I didn't say anything else. Why waste words?

Dr. Pritchard put his notebook and pen down next to him on the sofa. "What I'm hearing is that you froze on the job, and you don't know why, but it needs to not happen again. Is that right?"

I nodded.

"I think what we're going to need to do, first of all, is try to figure out _why_ you froze. Because if we can figure that out, maybe we can find a way to prevent it from happening again."

"Fair enough," I said. And pretty damned obvious.

"Do you have any ideas about what might have caused you to freeze up?"

"Nope. Like I told you—I just froze, and there was that rushing sound, and that's it." Damn, I said that in kind of a testy way. Bet he noticed, too.

"All right," he said mildly. "Let's start working backwards, then. Did anything unusual happen earlier on that shift that might've been related?"

"No," I said. "It was only four hours into the shift. I think Gage and—" I paused, and revised. "DeSoto and Dwyer had a couple of runs, but the garage fire was our first one of the shift."

"How about the previous shift?" he asked.

"I remember that one—a whole lotta nothing. We got a bunch of alarm activations, like usual, and one MVA, and a couple junk calls, but I don't even think we stretched a line the whole shift." I shook my head. "Weird."

"Did the paramedics have any calls? Gage and DeSoto?"

I tried to remember. "Well, first of all, it was DeSoto and Brice. And I'm sure they did—they get more runs than we do, most days. But nothing I can remember them mentioning."

"I noticed," Dr. Pritchard said, "that you've mentioned several times that Gage was out, and that a sub was working in his place. But you haven't mentioned _why_ he was out."

"Who, Gage? Yeah, he was out both those shifts. He had different subs both those days, though. It wasn't the same guy." My hands were hurting, suddenly. I looked down, and noticed that my fingernails had dug into the palms. I unclenched them—luckily nothing was bleeding, 'cause that would've been embarrassing. "It was a different guy subbing for him on each of those shifts."

"Why, Mike? Why was he out?"

Now why was I ready for all those other questions, but not this one? And what did he care, anyhow? But fair's fair—I oughta answer his questions. "He—" I cleared my throat. "He, uh, was taking some sick days."

Pritchard looked at me. "Was he sick?"

"No, he, uh … he … got hurt."

"On the job?" Pritchard asked.

"It's a risky business," I said. "I mean, we all know something could happen at any time."

"That's true," Pritchard said. He waited, like he was waiting for me to say something else. "Mike, I don't know if you noticed this, but I've asked you four times about why John Gage wasn't there that day, and four times, you avoided answering the question."

I looked back at him. "But I answered you. You asked me questions, and I answered you."

"You _said_ something—that's true. But you didn't really answer the question. What I'd like you to do, now, is explain to me the exact reason that Gage wasn't at work for the two shifts we've talked about."

"I told you," I said. I was starting to get impatient with this guy. "He got hurt. He needed some time off."

"What I'd like you to tell me," Dr. Pritchard said, "is _how_ he got hurt. What _happened_, exactly, that caused him to get hurt?"

All right. He wanted details? I could give him details.

"I didn't actually see it," I said.

He waited. I had a feeling he could wait all day. My hands were shaking—I guess I didn't really want to talk about it. But if he could wait all day, then there was no point in stalling. Why put either of us through that? So I told him what he wanted to know.

"I mean, I saw the building go—that was pretty hard to miss. Everyone but him was out. Chet and Roy had taken a patient out. Marco was flaking a hose to the front door, Cap was coordinating with the ladder company that just came in. But Johnny was still inside, finishing the primary search, when the building blew." I let out a long breath. "It was a gas leak—I guess I could've started from the beginning, make it possible to understand. The building was full of gas—it was apparently really, really heavy. I mean, I wasn't in there, so I don't know first hand—but the guys said later that they all had a bad feeling it was gonna go." I looked at him again, just to check to see if I'd said enough about what happened.

"You mentioned what all your co-workers were doing when the building blew up, with one man still inside. I'm curious—what were _you_ doing at the time?"

I frowned at him. "What was _I_ doing?"

He nodded. "Yes—you."

"Well, I was at the pump panel, of course."

"Just waiting?"

"No—the line was stretched to the front door, and the first thing you do after that is charge the line, even if you don't know if you're going to need it or not. And it seemed pretty likely we were gonna need it."

"So you were charging the line, from the pump panel."

I nodded. "Yep—that's how it's done. You run supply line from the hydrant to the intake on the engine, open the hydrant, open the intake so the pump can get water from the hydrant, and then you figure what discharge pressure you need for each line, and you set your pump discharge pressure to the highest of those, and then—" I paused. "You don't really want to know all that, do you."

"No. I want to know what you were physically doing, at the moment that the building blew."

I thought about it for a second. And then I realized what he was getting at, and it hit me like a ton of bricks. I know, that's a lame metaphor, but bricks are heavy, damn it. I knew exactly what had happened, and I felt like I was going to puke. I put my forearms on my knees, and rested my head on my hands, and talked down to the floor.

"I, uh, had my hand on the control to charge the line. I was pulling it out when the building blew."

There. I said it. And I didn't actually puke. It took me a minute or two to get myself back together again, though.

"Let me tell you a theory I have," Dr. Pritchard said, after I finally picked my head up again. "I don't have a shred of scientific evidence to back this up, but I'd like to tell you this theory. I think that the human brain is somehow hard-wired to make us believe that when Event A is associated with Event B, there must be a causal relationship—particularly if Event B is highly significant in some way. And _especially_ if Event B is traumatic in some way."

He let that sink in for a minute, and continued. "So our brains make us think that Event A caused Event B, even if the two events were completely unrelated. I think we do this even for mundane things. Say you wore a particular shirt when you went on a date, and that date went really well. That might become your lucky shirt, right?"

How the hell did he know about my lucky shirt? Oh. "That's just an example, right? I mean—something anyone might do."

He laughed. "That's just my favorite example, because I think it's one a lot of people can relate to."

"Oh. I was just wondering. So, a lot of people have lucky shirts?"

"Or something like that—some item of clothing, or some superstition about hair style, or aftershave, or anything that was associated with a significant event."

I felt a little dumb about my lucky shirt, which, come to think of it, hadn't been particularly lucky in quite a while anyhow, so I moved along. "So what you're saying is, maybe my brain thinks I somehow caused the explosion by opening that valve? Even though that's ridiculous?"

Dr. Pritchard nodded. "Yep. Even though it's completely impossible, I'll bet that's what your brain thinks. And on that topic—I think it's perfectly possible for our brains to think things that we're not even aware of."

I thought about that for a second. "So what you're saying is, my brain somehow connected the explosion where Gage got hurt, with the opening of that valve, and then the next time I did that same movement, I panicked?" That made perfect sense! That was it! Whew. That was easier than I thought. I just have to break that association, somehow—maybe handle the controls while I'm not under pressure some time—and I'll be fine. Back to work next shift, I'll bet.

"That's a start," said Dr. Pritchard. "But I think there's probably more to it than that. Don't you?"

I frowned at him. "What do you mean? It sounds perfectly simple to me—my brain somehow went haywire, thinking that every time I pull that control, something's gonna blow up."

"And someone's going to get hurt," he added.

Oh, yeah. That. "Okay," I said. "Maybe that, too." I honestly didn't know what else he was getting at. I figured he'd get around to telling me at some point, so I waited. I can do that too, Doc.

"How long have you been an engineer, Mike?" he asked, after a long pause.

Good—small talk. I could handle that. "Just over four years. I started at 51s when the station first opened—that was my first assignment as an engineer. I'd qualified six months earlier, but it took a while to get a permanent assignment."

"Four years," he said. "That's a pretty long time. And I noticed in Captain Stanley's report that the same men have been on the A-shift that entire time. That's fairly unusual, in a department this size."

I nodded. "Yeah—we're a pretty tight bunch. Kelly and Lopez were friends from the academy, and Gage and DeSoto knew each other from paramedic training. I guess DeSoto recruited Gage into the program, and helped train his class, or something like that."

"And in all that time, surely people have gotten banged around a bit. It's a dangerous job, as you said earlier."

"Sure, there've been some things, here and there. Like one time were were at this abandoned hospital that some firebugs had torched—they didn't do a very good job of it, actually, so the fire was under control in minutes—but then when we were all searching for two of the kids, Kelly got caught in a collapse. Broke his shoulder blade, which I didn't even know you could do."

"That wasn't during a fire, though, was it."

"Nope—fire was under control already. I was searching with another team, in a different room."

"Any other notable injuries?"

"Oh, sure—plenty. Let's see …" I thought back to the first year. "Oh—here's a weird one. Gage and DeSoto both got zapped with radiation when there was a fire in a lab."

"But it was the radiation that was the problem, right? Not the fire?"

"Right—that fire was out, too. But there was a guy trapped in a room with all sorts of radioactive shit—I guess Gage got the worst of it. He doesn't have any kids yet, so we're all hoping that all turns out okay for him."

"Others?" Pritchard queried. "What I'm really looking for is accidents or injuries that happened during a fire. Not when the fire was already out."

I had to think about that. I thought out loud, just so there wouldn't be any more questions than there had to be. "There was that monkey virus that Gage got, and then Gage got bit by a snake, and—huh—he landed in a patch of cactus—man, I never noticed before, but it's always him, isn't it. Weird."

"Any fire-related incidents?" Pritchard prodded.

"Nope," I said. "Not at this assignment. Which is weird, when you think about it, because we _are_ the fire department. At my last assignment, though, at Station 14, before I was an engineer, we nearly lost a guy when he fell through the roof while he was venting it. I was inside doing a primary search, at that point—I didn't see it happen. But I was on the team that got him out." I shook my head. "Man, that one really sucked. But he made it. We got him out, and got the fire out, and he made it."

"Tell me a little more about the building explosion last week," Dr. Pritchard suggested. "It sounds like it was quite a different incident than the other times anyone's gotten hurt on your shift."

I didn't really want to think about the rest of that day. But he was right—it _was_ different.

"Okay," I said warily. "What else do you want to know?"

"One thing I'd like to hear about is how your shift-mate managed to survive that explosion. How did he get out of the building?"

I could answer that. "Cap and Marco went in. Roy had been pretty sure that Johnny was coming down the stairs, so they were going to look around the stairs. I guess—I guess everybody knew if they didn't find him soon, there wasn't much hope."

"Why was that?"

"Because the whole building—every floor—was fully involved, all at once. Fires don't usually work that way—they usually start in one place in a building, and then spread. But with a gas explosion like that, it was the whole building, all at once. Mind you, the fire hadn't had a chance to become fully developed, yet, so he still had a chance—but only a couple minutes. Because after a couple minutes, any space with enough oxygen in it would flash over, and you don't survive that. You just don't."

"What was your job, at that point?"

"Me? I was on the engine. I'd charged the line, and Roy and Chet ran it into the building—really just to cover Cap and Marco a bit. That was no situation for an interior attack—no way, no how. But our guy was in there, so we had to try—at least try—to get him out before the whole place flashed over. And I could hardly believe it, but they did it—they got him out in like a minute."

"So, let me see if I have this right. Your captain, along with Lopez, went in to look for Gage. DeSoto and Kelly were backing them up, also inside. And you were at the engine."

My heart was thumping. I really didn't like this part of the story. "Yep—good old Mike the Engineer, standing by his engine, running the pump. Safe and sound."

"That's significant, isn't it."

"What is?"

"You said, 'safe and sound.' I think you're pretty keenly aware of the fact that your position as Engineer keeps you out of harm's way."

"It does," I admitted.

"And in this particular case—and correct me if I'm wrong, but I think it's highly unusual for the Captain to go inside, unless a battalion chief is there—but in this case, all five of your shift-mates were inside the building."

"You're right," I said. I cleared my throat. "That doesn't usually happen."

Pritchard looked at me again, and drummed his fingers on his notebook. "I've worked with quite a few engineers over the years, Mike, and one thing comes up over and over. People want to be engineers, because it's a promotion—better money, for one thing—and also because it's safer. You've paid your dues, probably for many years, and then you get promoted to a position where you can look forward to less arduous physical work, less danger, and a better paycheck. But then—when you're faced with a situation like the one you just described, I'm imagining that you probably feel pretty powerless. And maybe a bit guilty, too. Am I ringing any bells for you, here?"

"Yeah," I said, hoarsely. "Yeah. Powerless. That's exactly what it was. I couldn't do a fucking thing, Doc. Not a thing. I had no control over anything except the pressure in that hand line. And you know what? I really, really, really hated that."

TBC


	2. Home

Chapter 2.

Boy, this guy is good. He got stuff out of me in fifteen minutes that I didn't even know was there. And he was awfully quick in getting right into the stuff I _really_ didn't want to talk about.

Well, at least _some_ of the stuff I really didn't want to talk about. 'Cause there was plenty.

"You said something just then that I'd like to follow up on," said Pritchard. "You mentioned that you had no control over anything. Is being in control something that's important to you?"

Oh, boy. Here we go. "I don't know," I hedged. "I mean, there's lots of things that I know aren't under my control, or anybody's. The weather. I don't care about that—it does what it does, and that's that. Other people—I mean, people drive me crazy sometimes. Go for a drive with me and you'll hear how pissed off I get at other drivers. But I know I can't really control them, and that doesn't really bother me as much as the fact that they're morons who might get other people killed." I looked at Pritchard out of the corner of my eye, and could tell that he saw right through my blathering. I was killing time, and he knew it.

"Okay. Let's back up a second. Way back. I'd like to hear, in your own words, how you would describe yourself, your personality, your habits, to someone who's never met you."

I blinked. That wasn't what I was expecting. "Okay … I'm quiet in groups—I don't talk a lot, socially. But just socially. For technical things, or stuff like this—" I waved my hand around the room— "I do fine. As you can see. I can talk plenty. Um, I'm very organized, and most people would say I'm a neat freak, I suppose. I like to be on time, and I like to do a good job at work. I'm good at my job—actually, this is the first real problem I've had at work. You have to be able to stay calm, cool, and collected in this line of work—and I'm good at that."

"All right," Pritchard said, jotting down some notes. "We'll come back to some of those things. What are some things you _aren't_ good at?"

Another unexpected question. "Well, uh, sometimes I puke or pass out when there's a lot of blood. That can be a problem sometimes in my line of work, but I can mostly work around it."

"What else?"

"I guess it would be fair to say that I worry about things sometimes." Damn. Shouldn't've said that.

"What kinds of things?"

"I guess … things that bother me."

He looked at me. Yeah, I didn't think he was gonna let me get away with that. Okay. Fine.

"Mostly, whether things are the way they're supposed to be. Whether I did things right. And sometimes, I worry about what other people are thinking or doing."

"You can't control what other people are thinking or doing."

"Of course not. But—you know, when you have a conversation, or do something with someone, and then later, you think about whether you said the right things, or did the right things, and what is the other person thinking—that sort of thing. That's normal, right?"

"Well, 'normal' is a pretty complicated concept, if you ask me," Pritchard said. Now _he_ was evading. Hah. "But sure—everyone's concerned about what other people think. If you truly don't care about the rules of society, and how your behavior affects other people, that's certainly not normal. But on the other hand, if you allow yourself to spend your days and nights obsessing about things you said or did, that's not very functional either."

"My mother always said I was a real worrywart. She was always on my case to just let things go."

"Do you think you're a worrywart?"

I had to think about that one for a second. "I think it's fair to say," I said slowly, "that I get bent out of shape about little things sometimes. Not so much worrying, but just that I can't stop thinking about things I don't even wanna think about. You know how it's like some people have a switch in their heads, where they can just stop thinking about something whenever they feel like it? I was born without that. So sometimes I get kind of … stuck. Thinking about the same thing, over and over."

"And you can't control that. That must be distressing."

I didn't really know what to say, so I just nodded.

"I want to go back to something you said earlier, when I asked you to describe your personality. Some things that jumped out at me were 'don't talk a lot socially,' 'calm and collected,' 'organized,' and 'neat freak.' What I noticed is that all of the things you said to describe yourself are about control."

I thought about that for a second. "Self-control, and being neat and organized—I can see that. But just being a quiet guy? I don't see the connection."

"Let me tell you one thing. When Captain Stanley referred you to me, I asked him to describe you. He said pretty much the same things you said, but with great emphasis on the 'quiet' part. He said that you all have worked together for over four years, but that he knows hardly anything about you. But he also made a point of saying you're not unfriendly, or standoffish. Just extremely reserved, particularly about anything personal."

I shook my head. "I still don't see what just being quiet has to do with control."

"Well, if you don't say much, you're in control over what people know about you—about what you think, how you feel, your opinions—everything."

I couldn't disagree with that. And maybe I just felt a sudden need to assert what was left of any control I had over my current situation, but I didn't respond, either.

"I think we'll be coming back to the issue of control, Mike. But let's leave it there, for now, unless there was anything you wanted to add on the topic."

I shook my head minutely.

"All right. So, as I mentioned, Captain Stanley said he feels that he hardly knows anything about you. I'd like to ask you a few questions, about things that won't seem like they have anything to do with your current problem. The reason I want to talk about other things is that I find that problems like yours, that manifested at work, rarely exist in total isolation—work affects home, and vice versa. So I just want to ask you some general things, just so I have a more complete picture of you."

I nodded. "Okay," I said. "Just as long as it stays in this room."

Dr. Pritchard looked back at me. "I'm sorry—I should have said, first thing, that anything that's said in this room, stays in this room, between you and me. The only exceptions are if I feel that you're a danger to yourself or anyone else. And as far as the department is concerned, what I do is make a recommendation about whether and when you can return to work."

"Oh," I said. "When do you think you'll know," I said slowly, "when I can go back?"

"Soon," he said. "We'll talk about that today, before you go. But for now, let's get on with some of the basics. Like, for instance, a brief summary of your early life, and anything about it that was particularly unusual or significant."

"Well, I'm the youngest of three. My sister and brother are both more than ten years older than me, so I suppose it's a fair guess that I was an accident. My mom was almost forty when I was born, and my father was forty five. So they're up there in years at this point. I definitely remember having people think they were my grandparents when I was a kid. But whatever."

"Did you grow up in L.A.?"

"Yep—well, north of the city. I didn't really get it when I was a kid, but I think we were pretty well off. My father was a lawyer, and I guess he did pretty well. Anyhow—my folks and I got along fine when I was a kid. I did all the normal kid things—Boy Scouts, Little League. I did fine in school."

"You said you got along with your parents fine when you were a kid—have things changed?"

Damn, he's sharp. I didn't even mean to say it that way.

"Uh, yeah. We don't talk much. They wanted me to go to college, I wanted to be a fireman. I spent a year at UCLA, and then dropped out and went to the fire academy. They weren't happy about that." Among other things, I thought silently.

"Why not, do you suppose?"

"Oh, I know _exactly_ why not. They're complete and utter snobs, is why. I didn't really understand that when I was a kid. But they totally look down their noses at anyone who works a blue-collar job. I mean, I don't know what they think would happen if all us folks who hold things together suddenly disappeared, but they seem to think they're better than us working-class types."

"And what made you want to be a fireman?"

"I had an uncle—my dad's brother—who was a fireman. I never saw him much—see above at 'classist snobs'—but I always thought his job was so exciting, so interesting, so important. So I knew from early on what I wanted to do. I guess a lot of little kids want to be firemen, but then they grow up and decide to do something else. Maybe I just never grew up—I don't know. But I was always sure about what I wanted to do."

"Tell me a bit about your life now. You live on your own, correct?"

"I inherited my uncle's house—that same uncle who was the fireman. I had no idea I was in his will, so it was quite a surprise to find out at twenty three that I was a homeowner."

"And you live there on your own?" Dr. Pritchard repeated.

"Uh, yeah. I do." Well, it was true. Nobody else was living there.

"What do you do outside of work?"

"Well, I actually do a lot of overtime these days. It's pretty much the only way I can afford the taxes on the house. So between the OT and just keeping the house and yard up, and all the day to day stuff—not a ton. I'll go to ball games, and the movies, and that sort of thing."

"On your own?"

"Sometimes with one of the guys from work. But otherwise, usually on my own these days."

"These days?" Pritchard queried.

Damn it.

"Uh, yeah. I was in a relationship for a few years, but they just moved to Boston a few months ago."

"So you've split up?"

Double damn it. "In my book we have. I mean, you don't take a job all the way across the country if you really want to be with someone, do you? I mean, my job was here, our house was here, and I was pretty clear on not wanting to move."

"You said 'our house' — you were living together?"

"Yeah. For four years. I mean, things hadn't been going so great, but I thought we were kind of working things out—but then, bam! Off to Boston."

"Were you married?"

"Ah … no. Just living together."

"Are you still in touch?"

"Sort of. I mean, we talk on the phone, but it's mostly logistical things. There's still a lot of their stuff in my house. But relationship-wise? We're done."

"I see," said Dr. Pritchard. "To be honest, you don't seem very upset by this."

"I'm not, any more. I guess I realized, once I was on my own again, how bad things had been."

"Did you ever consider moving to Boston as well? Applying to the fire department there?"

I laughed. "See, that wasn't the idea. The idea—not _my_ idea, of course—was that I'd go along to Boston, and get a totally different kind of job. A nice, easy, normal nine-to-five type deal. And that's one reason I didn't go—because that was the expectation. And the other reason, before you ask, was that I guess I didn't really think we'd be able to work things out no matter where we lived. And that's about all I have to say on that topic right now, if you don't mind."

"That must have been a hard transition. Were your colleagues supportive? I know sometimes that can make all the difference."

Triple, quadruple damn it. "Look—I prefer to keep my home life at home, and my work life at work. So, no, they weren't supportive, but only because they didn't know what was going on. They're all great guys, but I just keep everything … separate. And I _really_ don't see what this has to do with how I freaked out the other day. Can we just talk about that, instead, please? Because I _really_ need to get back to my job."

"All right. We can talk more about that, if you'd like. Our time is nearly up, anyhow."

"You said before we'd talk about me getting back to work soon. I mean, you figured out why I froze up, right? So isn't that enough?"

"It's a start—a good start. But there are a couple of things I think we need to do first."

"Like what?" I asked. I tried not to be too hostile, but I really didn't see what else he wanted.

"For instance, I want to see you actually handle the controls of an engine, in a non-stress situation. It'll be good for you to do that, as well—to break the association between working the controls and bad things happening."

"How the hell are we going to do that?" I asked. "I mean, there aren't just spare fire engines lying around for people to play with." I didn't mean to snap at him, but that last line of conversation had really ticked me off.

"What I usually do, when I have a client who I need to observe using equipment—which happens a fair amount—is arrange with the academy to use their equipment in the evening or on the weekend. I'll make the arrangements—you just have to show up, and show me what you do. How does that sound?"

"And if I can do that, I can go back to work?"

"We'll have a session right afterwards, and we'll discuss it then. But it's likely that I'll be willing to sign you off, with the condition that we continue to meet for a while after you go back to work."

"Why? I mean, if I can do what I need to do, without freezing up, why do I have to keep coming here?"

"Because, Mike, I think there are some underlying things to work on. Things that if you don't get a handle on them, the sort of event that happened yesterday could happen again. Issues around control, and lack of control, and what happens when you're not in control of a situation. Don't you think maybe that's true, too?"

What are we up to now? Oh yeah. Quintuple damn it. "Yeah. I guess so."

"Good—I'm glad you agree. So—scheduling wise, are there any evenings this week that are bad?"

"Nope—my schedule is an open book, without having any shifts to go to, and without subbing." Yep, my house and yard were gonna get really, really tidy.

"All right. I'll arrange something for as soon as I can—hopefully tomorrow evening. I'll call you when I have a time."

"Sounds good."

Pritchard put his notebook and pen down again. "I want to tell you, the fact that you were frank and open about your difficulties at work made this whole process go a lot faster. If you hadn't been willing to discuss your problem at work, I wouldn't be talking about clearing you any time soon. But you were willing, and we got right to a piece of the problem."

"A piece. Right."

"You have to start somewhere. So: hopefully, I'll see you tomorrow evening at the academy. If not, we're scheduled for the next morning anyhow."

"Right. When I would've been working, but now I'm not."

"You will, soon, I think. Keep doing the work you need to do with me, and you'll make it back."

"Okay."

He stood up, so I did the same. I ducked out of the office, hoping nobody saw me. The hallway was deserted, which was fine with me. I made my way down to the first floor of HQ, and out to the parking lot. In the car on the way home, I thought about some things I needed to do, that I'd been putting off. I suppose putting things off is one way of controlling them, isn't it.

But you're probably actually in more control of tasks if you're doing them, rather than putting them off. So I knew what the first thing I needed to do when I got home was. I was dreading it, but it had to be done.

It was four o'clock by the time I got home. Seven, in Boston. Perfect. I picked up the phone, and dialed.

"_Hello_?"

"Hi. It's Mike."

"_Oh. How are you_?"

"Fine," I lied. But what was the point of telling the truth? "But listen: we need to talk about some things."

"_All right. Like what_?"

"Like the fact that our relationship is over," I said, getting straight to the point. "You know, we never actually said that to each other—not really. But we're done. I know it, and you know it."

"_You could have come with me. But you didn't._"

"You knew—you _knew_ when you took the Boston job that I wasn't going with you. So don't try to make me feel guilty. You didn't have to take that job—we could've tried harder to work things out. Or maybe not. But you took it. And now I'm here, and you're there. And half your stuff is here."

"_Oh, so you want your space back. I see._"

"It's not about the space. There's plenty of space here for one person and one-and-a-half people's worth of stuff."

"_Then what is it about, if it's not about the space?_"

"What it's _about_, is the fact that you left, which says to me that you're done with this relationship, but you left half your stuff here, which says you still want to have some kind of hold on me. But you know what? I can't deal with that any more. It's been six months—and I need your stuff out of the house."

"_It's _my_ stuff. I'll deal with it_."

"I _know_ it's _your_ stuff. That's what we've been talking about, isn't it? But it's _my_ house—_my_ life. You needed me out of your life, so you left. I need your stuff out of my house. So here's the deal: I have a few days off in a row. I'm gonna pack up all your stuff, and put it in the garage. You can come get it, or send someone for it, any time in the next four weeks. And if you don't show up by then, I'm going to rent a storage unit somewhere, and put your stuff in there, and send you the key and the bill. And then it's up to you what happens to your stuff."

"_Four weeks? How am I supposed to get across the country in the next four weeks?_"

"What do you want? Five weeks? Six? Fine. Six weeks from today, anything that's left in the garage will go into storage."

"_There you go again, always so overly controlling._"

"It's my house—and you don't live in it any more. And in six months, you've made no effort to do anything about your things that are still here. So why shouldn't I be 'overly controlling' about it?"

"_To prove to yourself that just once in your life, you don't have to be in charge. That if something is out of place, or not just right, that the world won't come crashing down. That's why_."

"You know what? To be honest, I don't really care what you think. And here's what I think: I think we should just end this conversation, because there's really nothing left to talk about."

"_I suppose not. I suppose there hasn't been anything to talk about for a long time. So yeah. I'll admit it. We're through._"

"Fine—if you're gonna come get your stuff in person, just tell me when, and I'll leave you a key to the garage somewhere. I don't really think it would do either of us any good to see each other."

"_No. No, I suppose not. Jesus. We're really done, aren't we. I know we need to move on. But—I guess I'm kind of sorry._"

"Yeah," I said. "I'm sorry too. But it doesn't matter any more, does it. Take care of yourself, all right?"

I hung up the phone, and stared out the window at absolutely nothing for about ten minutes. Then I started packing. I started with the bedroom—that didn't take long. Not much left behind, there. I looked around the room, at the light green walls, and the beige carpet over the tiles. I hated that carpet—and it wasn't my idea to put it in, either. I wasn't the one with cold feet, winter, spring, summer, and fall. Cold feet—in L.A., for crying out loud.

I started moving furniture out of the bedroom, into the living room. Because, starting tomorrow, I was taking my house over, for myself. The bedroom carpet would go, and I'd repaint in there, too. And after that, who knew? I could do whatever I wanted.

**TBC**


	3. Friend, and Engine

Chapter 3: Friend, and Engine

Pritchard called first thing the next morning.

"We can use an engine from the academy at six p.m today. Will that work for you?"

"Sure," I said. "Fine. Should we just meet in the apparatus bay down there?"

"Perfect. And afterwards, we can talk in an empty office at the academy, unless you'd prefer to go back to my office at HQ."

"Uh, I think I'd prefer your office, to be honest." I knew a couple guys who worked at the academy, and I didn't really need the world to see me hanging out with the department's shrink.

"That's fine. I'll see you at six."

I spent most of the day working on the bedroom. The carpet came up easily, and within an hour of my putting it out on the street with a "Free" sign on it, it was gone. The floor underneath was gross, but I figured I'd deal with that after I painted.

I chose a darkish color for the walls—kind of walnut, I suppose. Pretty dark for an interior shade, but that's how I wanted it. The color went well with the terra-cotta tile floor. I was done with the first coat by two in the afternoon.

While I was painting, I thought about what Pritchard and I had talked about. The control thing. And hating it when I was safe and my buddies weren't. I hadn't really thought of that as a possible down-side to being an engineer. When I made my pros versus cons list when the chance for the promotion and transfer came up, the main thing on the "cons" side was not being in on the big action as much. But it kind of got canceled out, because the exact same thing went under the "pros" side, because if you're not in on the big action, you're probably not gonna get hurt or killed.

Speaking of which.

I'd been to see Gage in the hospital twice—once, of course, when we were all hanging out after that shift, waiting to see how he turned out. He was in pretty rough shape. And I'll tell you, it'd be fine with me if I went the rest of my life without ever hearing anyone I know scream like that again. It's bad enough when it's strangers, but when it's someone you know—well. It's worse. And I don't know how Roy managed—he had to work on him.

The other time I went to see him was also with the guys—at the end of the first shift we worked when he was out, we all trooped over there together to say hi. He looked a lot better, but was obviously still in a lot of pain, still on a lot of drugs.

I think probably all the rest of the guys have been to see him on their own. But I just couldn't manage it. I kept putting it off. Not because I didn't like him—in fact, I think except for Cap, he was the one of the guys I liked best—the one who kind of understood me. Which is pretty strange, considering he almost never shut up, and I almost never said much of anything. But we'd talk, sometimes.

When I thought about it, I figured the real reason why I hadn't been to see Gage was that some part of my brain had decided that what happened to him was my fault—that I'd caused the explosion. Which was ridiculous. But that must've been why I hadn't been to see him, because why wouldn't I, otherwise? Besides the fact that he was in the hospital, and hospitals make me feel sick to my stomach.

I guessed he'd heard about my freak-out. Roy might not have said anything, and I'm sure Cap wouldn't. Marco probably wouldn't, but I'm not sure. But Kelly? He'd be all over it. Not that he'd be trying to be mean, or anything, but just that he's always the one with the 'news,' as he calls it. Personally, I call it 'gossip.' Don't get me wrong—I don't dislike him. I sometimes just get frustrated with how much he talks about other people's lives. Reminds me why I don't talk about my own, much.

I picked up the phone, and called the general information number at Rampart. They told me their visiting hours, and gave me Gage's room number and transferred me to his extension.

"_Hello_?" He sounded a little foggy—I hoped I hadn't woken him.

"Hey, Gage. It's Mike Stoker. Just checking to see how you're doing."

"_Mike! I'm not doin' too bad, actually. Not too bad at all, considering._"

Considering that he'd just been inside a building when it exploded, is what he meant, I'm sure.

"Good. Hey, I have to be at the academy at six, and Rampart's nearby. Can I stop by for a while before that?"

"_That'd be great! Maybe sometime between four and five?_"

"Sure—I know that's kind of early for dinner, but unless you've changed a lot, you can pretty much eat whenever. So how about if I bring you something that's actually edible?"

"_Really? That'd be great! I'm not picky—just whatever's convenient._"

"I'm making spaghetti—how about that?" That was a little white lie—I'd been planning to just have a sandwich or something simple. But I knew he liked that spaghetti, and I knew he probably wasn't eating right at the hospital.

"_Terrific! You know I can pack that away._"

Yes, I had certainly observed that. "Good—see you later, then."

"_I'll be there. Not goin' anywhere for quite a while, it seems._" Suddenly he didn't sound so cheerful.

~!~!~!~

A couple hours later, there I was, walking down the corridor of the fifth floor of Rampart,with a small cooler full of containers of spaghetti. Yeah, I know, "cooler," right? But they work just fine to keep things hot, too.

I knocked on his door.

"C'mon in!"

I hesitated for a moment. I mean, I knew he looked crummy—hell, he'd just been blown up, for crying out loud. But I guess I was hesitating because this was the first time I'd be seeing him since I cracked up, and I figured it'd kind of be dumb for me not to discuss it with him. Hell, I'd probably get extra points from Pritchard for it. So in I went.

"Hey, Gage. How're you doing?"

"A hell of a lot better than last time you were here. Man, I was reeeeaaal spaced out then. I mean, I know all of you guys were here, but I have no idea what we talked about."

"Lot of drugs, huh?"

"Yeah—but I'm off the IV stuff now. Just pills now. They don't get you quite as loopy as the IV stuff, for some reason. Don' gemme wrong." I could hear the slurring now. "I'm still plenny out of it. But not so bad."

I realized he hadn't really answered the question I was really asking. Maybe I learned from Pritchard how to recognize evasion. Or maybe I just recognized it since I'm an expert at evasion myself. He'd told me all about being spaced out by drugs, but nothing about how he was really _doing_. I decided to pry.

"But how are you _feeling_?" I asked. "Your leg, your head?"

"Oh." He looked down at the long-leg cast. "Leg still hurts a lot. Tha's why I still have the drugs, ya know?" He frowned. "I hate that shit. Makes me silly and foggy. Gets yer insides all clogged up after a coupla days, too. Ya get so backed up ya feel like you could sneeze shit. Avoid it, man. Avoid gettin' busted up, so you can avoid these crazy drugs."

"How about your head?" He'd gotten a nasty concussion, in addition to the broken leg.

"Oh, I reckon I prob'ly have a huge headache, but it's nothin' compared to that leg."

Geez. He was actually admitting how bad he was hurting.

"I'm sorry," I said, lamely. "I'm really sorry about all this."

"'S not your fault, Stoker. Hell, you're the one keeps us all safe. With the water, 'n all."

"Yeah, but it doesn't feel so good, sometimes, when I'm hanging out by the engine, and everyone else is inside a burning building." Jesus. Why did I _say_ that? To _him_, of all people?

He scowled at me. I almost laughed—the Gage scowl is just so … I don't know. Refreshing. Real. Sounds like a soft drink, not a facial expression. And the opiate-enhanced Gage scowl was a sight to behold. But I managed to keep my feelings to myself. As usual. And I didn't actually laugh, or even smile, before he continued.

"Say … I heard somethin' about you havin' some kinda problem last shift. Like you got sent home sick or somethin'. What's goin' on, Stoker?"

What the hell. He was so doped up he'd probably never remember this conversation anyhow.

"I froze up on the job," I said. "I freaked out, and froze up."

"Yeah? Somethin' like that happened to me once, too. I had a real bad call—a kid one—and the kid arrested jus' as I was startin' the IV. She did'n make it. Next time I had to start an IV—bam. Total p'ralysis." He frowned at me. "But that's prob'ly nothin' like what you meant. What'd you mean, anyhow?"

I was astonished at how _exactly_ like what I meant it was. "Same thing, actually. I was supposed to charge a line. Last time I charged a line—last time I had my hand on that control—something bad happened. So the other day, when I had to do the same thing, I couldn't do it. But now I know why I froze up, so I don't think it'll happen again."

His frown deepened. "What happened? The bad thing, I mean."

I sighed. "That was when you got hurt, Gage. The building exploded the second I charged the line."

"You did'n do it, ya know. It was just a con … coin … fuck. You know."

"A coincidence," I finished for him. "Yeah. I know. But still—your brain can kind of trick itself, I think. Into making you think one thing caused another, when it was just a coincidence."

"Oh, you bet it can, Mikey. You betcha."

I decided to let him get away with that 'Mikey' crap, since he was high.

"So, how about some spaghetti?" I said, since it was really past time to change the subject.

"Aw, yeah, man!" He squirmed around, trying to sit up higher, which looked difficult with that cast.

"Here—let me." I stole the pillows off the adjacent unused bed, helped him sit up higher, and crammed the pillows behind him as best as I could.

He leaned back and sighed. "Perfect."

I swung the table over his lap, and placed a large dish of spaghetti in front of him.

"Uh, you got a fork?"

Whoops. Details, details.

"I'll go scare something up. Be right back."

Happily, the nurses were able to provide us with plastic forks. Unhappily, the flimsy plastic flatware wasn't quite up to the task of twirling Stoker's Spaghetti Supreme, and we ended up with spaghetti all over ourselves. The nurse was none too happy when she came in and saw what a mess we'd made—even after we tried to clean ourselves and the room up a bit.

"Honestly, Mr. Gage. You're more work than the rest of the floor put together," she said, glaring at me as harshly as she glared at him. Maybe even more. She flounced out of the room, carrying the pile of now-orange towels that we handed her.

I could see Gage was trying really, really hard not to laugh, but as soon as the door swung closed, laughter snorted from his nose and he dissolved in giggles.

"Well, Mikey, I don't think I had muchuva chance with her anyhow. But now? Zip. Zero. Zilch!"

Between the food, the mess, and the cleanup, I think I distracted him from the pain for about an hour. Not bad, for an introverted, organized, overly-controlling neat freak. But it was almost five forty, and I didn't want to be late. Plus, Gage's eyes were drooping, and he looked like he was going to fade out any second.

"Hey, Gage? I gotta go."

"Aw, already? Waitasec. You said you were goin' to the 'cademy. What for, anyhow?"

I was still bargaining that he wouldn't really remember this conversation. Plus, with his IV experience, maybe he'd get what I was trying to do. So I chanced it.

"Well, someone I know suggested I oughta try charging a line when I'm not stressed out. So I got permission to use an engine at the academy tonight, just to run through a few drills. Just to make sure I can do everything without freezing up."

Gage nodded. "You got a mighty smart friend, there. What I did, was I made Roy let me start an IV on him. I was s'prised—I froze up real good, again, the first time I tried it. But he talked me through it a couple times. He got stuck a lot of times, but I worked it out of my system. Whatever it was." He closed his eyes for a second, and I thought he was actually asleep, so I started to pack up the dishes.

"Hey," he said, suddenly awake again. "Lemme know how it wen', okay?"

"Sure," I said. "I could come by tomorrow, late morning. I have an appointment at HQ at ten. I could come by after that."

"'kay. See ya. Thanks." He closed his eyes again, and this time it was for real. I finished cleaning up, and managed to sneak off the floor without seeing that nurse again.

~!~!~!~

"Don't take her off academy grounds, all right?" said the instructor who handed me the keys to the engine.

"No, we won't," I assured him.

"You gonna hit a hydrant, or you gonna draft?" he asked.

I looked at Dr. Pritchard.

"Whatever you were doing at the time," he said.

"Hydrant," I said.

"Fine. If you're gonna discharge a lot of water, try to put it into the drafting pond, all right? And lemme know when you need a hand loading hose. I'll be in the bay."

"Thanks," I said. "C'mon, Doc—hop in."

The engine was the same make and model as Engine 51—a newish Ward LaFrance. I looked over the pump panel, and everything was configured exactly the same. So it would be a pretty realistic imitation of the real thing. Except for the fact that there was no danger.

Pritchard climbed into the officer's seat—fitting, really, since he was in command of this operation. I pulled the engine out of the bay, and around to the back, where there was a hydrant next to an artificial pond.

"Now, Mike—I want you to do everything the way you did at the building where there was an explosion. As close as you can."

"Okay. There are some things that take more than one person, that happened before the explosion. I'll just be both people—unless you know how to hit a hydrant?"

Pritchard shook his head. "Someday I really ought to sit in on the basics at the academy. I mean, I know what all the terms mean, but I've never actually done any of it."

"You should," I said. "But for now, I'll just be both guys. It'll mean some running back and forth that didn't actually happen, but I don't think that'll make a difference. It's just set-up."

"That's fine. I'll just stand by the pump panel, where the real action will be."

I thought about the incident. We were first on scene, and Cap had me do a forward lay. So I stopped the engine at the hydrant, dropped the hydrant bag at the hydrant, wrapped the supply line around the hydrant, and drove forward a couple hundred feet, well past the drafting pond, dropping supply line behind me on the way. I parked the engine, and chocked the wheels. Everything has to be just so, right?

I found the next coupling on the supply line, and unhooked it. I connected the supply line to the intake. I trotted back to the hydrant, and connected the other end of the supply line, and cranked the hydrant open. It was ridiculously easy—that hydrant had probably been opened thousands of times in its life, unlike most. I went back to the engine, and stretched the same line as Chet and Marco had done at the gas-filled building. I didn't figure on actually discharging any water, so I just zig-zagged it in the direction that the door of the building had been in. Back to the engine, again. I put her in pump gear, opened the intake, and throttled up the engine. I set the pressure relief so everything was safe. The last step would be to open the valve for the line I'd stretched, to charge the line.

I remembered what Gage had said—how he froze up in a practice IV with DeSoto. But so far, I felt totally fine. Everything was a piece of cake.

Pritchard was watching as I placed my hand on the control. As I started to pull, my ears filled with a rushing sound. I tried to pull the knob—I really, really tried. But nothing happened. All I could hear was the rushing sound. I could see Pritchard's lips moving, but I couldn't hear him. I put my hands over my ears, to try to drown out the rushing sound, but it must've been inside my head, because it just got louder without the sound of the fire pump to drown it out.

Damn it.

I walked a few steps away from the engine, and took my hands away from my ears. The sound was gone.

Pritchard followed me.

"What happened?" he asked as quietly as could be heard with a fire engine in pump gear a few yards away.

"Same thing," I said, dully. "I'll try again."

"Okay. That's a good idea. Take your time."

I plodded back to the engine. I looked at every single discharge control. The one I needed to pull was all the way at the right. I started at the left, and touched each one, on the way to the right—I thought maybe if I kind of warmed up a little, it would be easier. Finally, I put my hand on the last control—the one that, if and when I pulled it, would charge that line. I held on tightly, waiting for the rushing sound. It didn't come. I pulled the control out, and watched the line as it filled with water. I pushed the control back in to close the valve slowly.

I looked at Pritchard.

"Good," he shouted over the engine. "Now do it again."

I bled the pressure out of the line. I did my "warm-up" again, figuring that if it worked once, it'd probably work again. After touching each of the controls on the way to the one I needed, I pulled it open—no problem. I bled out the line, and did the whole thing again.

"Okay," Pritchard yelled over the noise of the engine. "That'll do it, Mike."

I was pretty pleased, but he didn't look all that thrilled. He probably just wasn't used to the noise. The doc volunteered himself to go get the academy guy to help load up the hose, while I started breaking everything down. When the other guy appeared, we made short work of loading up the supply line and the attack line.

"Wow," he said. "Can't remember the last time I did this with someone who actually knows what they're doing. I forgot that it's possible to load hose quickly and neatly and without a lot of fuss."

"Happy to make your day a little easier," I said. "Thanks for the use of the equipment."

"Will you be needing it again?" he asked.

I shook my head.

But at the same time, Dr. Pritchard answered as well. "Yes, if you don't mind. Can you make it the same time tomorrow, Mike?"

I looked at him like he'd suddenly turned green and grown antennae.

"We'll talk about it in a minute," he said, "but I need you to try it again, tomorrow."

I was baffled. "All right," I said. "Same time tomorrow."

"Sure thing," said the academy guy. "How 'bout if I put her back in the bay?"

"Thanks," I said, still dazed and confused, watching as he drove off in the engine.

"Mike, I'll see you back at my office in a few minutes, all right?"

"Okay," I said. "I don't get it, though. I did it—I charged the line, three times, without freezing up."

"You did," he said. "And that's good. But we need to talk some more, all right? And I think you said you'd prefer to talk in my office."

I nodded. "Okay."

"Okay. I'll see you there."

I walked to my truck, and drove the five minutes to HQ, wondering what the hell I did wrong.

**TBC**


	4. Self

Chapter 4: Self

I obsessed about it the whole way to HQ. What did I do wrong? Or did I even do anything wrong? Maybe it was fine, but he just wanted me to do it again on a different day. Maybe that was it. But then I thought about how he didn't look very happy when I'd completed my task for the third time, and was right back where I started: I must have done something wrong.

But I opened the valve, charged the line. And I didn't do anything wrong, procedurally, in any of the steps that came before that, either.

Well, at least I wouldn't have long to wait to find out what the problem was. I parked closer to the HQ building than I'd ever gotten before, and strode up to the front door. I was trying not to be angry, at least until I heard what he had to say, but it was hard.

I stopped in the men's room on my way to Pritchard's office, just to wash some of the hose and truck grime off my hands and face. But my shirt—that was a disaster. I hadn't realized, when I left the hospital, just how much spaghetti I'd gotten down my front. The shirt was dark green, so on the one hand, some of the stains didn't show up at all, but on the other hand, the ones that were visible looked horrendous, mixing with the green of the fabric to make a brownish tinge, like dried blood. I wet some paper towels, and tried to get as much of the sauce off as I could, but I it ended up looking worse than when I'd started. It was slightly cleaner, but looked worse, because it was wet, too. And even though it was slightly less gross, it still wasn't anywhere near what I'd call clean. I put some hand soap on another wet towel, and tried again. The result was worse—now there were light-colored blotches where the soap had foamed up in the fabric, and the wet paper towel wasn't nearly wet enough to really rinse it out.

I felt like I was caught between a rock and a hard place. Pritchard was there in his office, waiting. I was probably already late—he was probably wondering where the hell I was, or if I'd misunderstood that I was supposed to show up at his office. But I couldn't go out looking like this. The guy at the academy, who probably already thought I was nuts for having to demonstrate skills for the department shrink, must've thought I was a complete lunatic, showing up with spaghetti all over my shirt. So I stripped the shirt off, and quickly ran the soapy parts under the faucet.

I ended up with a slightly cleaner but sopping wet shirt. I wrung it out the best I could, grabbed wads of paper towels, and pressed the shirt between them. Better. But I'd probably freeze in the over-air-conditioned office. Oh well. I supposed it was better to show up in a wet shirt, than in a shirt with spaghetti all over it.

The hallway that Pritchard's office was on was deserted. His door was wide open, but I knocked on the door anyhow.

"Come on in, Mike. And close the door behind you, if you will."

I closed the door, and took the same seat I'd had the previous day.

"I wondered what was keeping you—you pulled out of the parking lot at the academy before I did, and I've been here for ten minutes."

"Uh … sorry to keep you waiting," I said lamely.

"What happened to your shirt? It's all wet."

Couldn't he have just ignored that, politely?

"Well, I was in the bathroom down the hall, just washing truck grime off my hands, and I saw how much spaghetti sauce I'd gotten on my shirt, so I kind of … had to clean it up a little."

"Spaghetti? I hadn't noticed that. But now it definitely looks wet, and cold."

I didn't reply to that. I didn't see what else there was to say about it.

"We'll come back to that," Pritchard said. I was beginning to hate that phrase. "Tell me what you think happened tonight—why I want to see you go through that task again tomorrow."

"I'll be honest, Doc. I'm stumped. I did all the things I needed to do. Sure—I froze that first time—but I got past it."

"How?" asked Pritchard.

"Huh? What do you mean? I froze the first time, but then the second time, I guess I was taking it easier, or going slower, or something, because it wasn't a problem."

"I noticed you doing some things differently after the first time. You put your hand on each of the other controls in the same row as the one you needed to operate."

"Sure—I was just kind of, you know, warming up. After the first time, I thought I oughta kind of take it slower."

"And so you slowed yourself down by touching all the other controls before getting to the one you really needed?"

"I guess …"

"That was the first time you successfully charged the line. What about the second time? Why did you touch all the other controls then?"

"I don't know—I guess because it helped before."

"Helped, how?"

I had to think about that for a second, because I didn't really have a good answer. "I don't know—I guess the first time I did it kind of as a warm-up. Slowly getting to where I needed to be, rather than rushing in." Where angels fear to tread. Did that make me a fool? Probably.

"Okay—I'm asking about the second and third times, though. How did it help you those times?"

"Um …" I thought about how I was feeling at each step of the process. "I guess maybe just touching those controls made me feel less anxious—like, because it worked before, it would work again. A lucky charm, or something." I was getting annoyed and nervous at the same time, because I really didn't see where he was going with all this. And I didn't like feeling like I was about to be blindsided.

"All right," Pritchard said. "I can agree with you that the first time you touched the controls, maybe those actions did actually have a real purpose—to slow down your movements, or to 'warm up' somehow. So I think it's fair to say that touching the controls 'worked' the first time."

"Why just the first time? I mean, it worked the other two times, too."

"No." Pritchard shook his head. "It didn't."

I shook my head right back at him. "How can you say that? I was able to pull the control when I needed to. So it worked!" I was trying not to raise my voice, but it was hard.

"It didn't 'work,' Mike. You were performing a meaningless action only because you'd associated it with a positive outcome before. The action itself contributed nothing to your success. If you hadn't touched those other controls the last time you opened that valve, you still would've been able to open it."

I had to think about that for a minute. Then I realized what he really meant.

"My brain did that thing again, didn't it, where it believed Event A caused Event B. Except this time, Event A was touching all the controls, and Event B was being able to open the valve without freezing up," I said glumly.

He nodded. "Exactly." He paused, to let it all sink in, and continued. "Let me ask you something. Do you think, if you'd continued repeating the task, that you would have continued your ritual of touching all the controls before opening the valve?"

I thought about it. "Probably," I admitted. "I might've done it faster, maybe, but I probably still would've done it."

"And that's why I stopped you, Mike. I didn't want to let you set that behavior up into a pattern that would be hard to break."

"What do you mean?" I was puzzled. "You could've just said 'don't do that,' and I would've stopped."

He looked at me, without saying anything, for a few long, long, seconds.

"Maybe," I said. He was still waiting. "Or maybe I would've frozen again when I wasn't doing that thing. Because my brain had already decided I needed to do that in order to not freeze up," I concluded.

"Very astute, Mike. The reasons I didn't just stop you and tell you not to touch the other controls any more were that, (a), I didn't want you to have the possible experience of freezing again, and thinking it was because you didn't do the ritual you'd started, and (b), I wanted to talk about what you were doing before trying the task again."

"Okay," I said. "So let's talk about it."

"I'm wondering, Mike—are there any other little routines or habits you have like that? Where you do something that might be a little odd, because it 'works' in some way?"

I had to think about that. "Well, there's things like always putting knives tip-down in the dish drainer, so I don't stab myself when I'm taking them out. Is that what you mean?"

He shook his head. "No—that's an action with an actual purpose—you're truly less likely to stab yourself with a knife if its tip is down. I'm thinking about behaviors that don't have any true function, other than to make some following task feel easier."

I thought for a few seconds. Nothing was coming to mind.

"Think about things you do often at work—maybe things that are challenging, or dangerous."

Oh.

"There's this thing I do," I said slowly, "when I'm going to back the engine up."

"Tell me about it," Pritchard said gently. "Take your time."

"Backing the engine is really tricky—you can't see out the back like you can in a car. You have to use the side mirrors, but there are still lots of blind spots. Nobody loves backing an engine. And anyone who's done it regularly has hit something. Guaranteed." I paused, thinking about my habit, which, when I thought about it, was really weird.

"Go on," he said neutrally. "And try not to be concerned about telling me about this, even if what you do sounds really strange to you now that you're thinking about it."

I shook my head. "You're like a mind reader, or something. That's exactly what I was thinking. But anyhow—the thing I do, is before I shift into reverse, and I have it in neutral, with my foot on the brake, I use my clutch foot and I tap on the floor between the clutch and the brake, three times. Then I shift, and back up." I could tell my face was flaming red with embarrassment. "I don't even know where that came from—I just do it, and it … makes me feel like it's safer to back the engine. Which I guess is really dumb."

"Don't worry about how it sounds—I'm just glad you have an example that you were willing to tell me about, because that's going to be really helpful." said Dr. Pritchard. "So. What I'd like you to do now, is close your eyes and imagine that you're behind the wheel. You're about to have to back the engine up—not into the bay at the station, but someplace unfamiliar, and tricky."

"Backing up a hill on a narrow street where you can't turn around," I suggested. "That's always a bitch."

"Okay—so imagine that's what you're about to do. So close your eyes, and imagine that you're going to back up a narrow, hilly street. Put your hands on the wheel. Shift into neutral, and keep your left foot on the clutch for now, and your right foot on the brake."

I cooperated, feeling slightly ridiculous. My feet were on the floor in front of me, acting like they were on the brake and the clutch. My hands were in the air in front of me, at ten o'clock and two o'clock. I was sure I looked ridiculous. But I was starting to bet that Pritchard had seen worse.

"Now keep the image of the narrow, hilly street firmly in your mind. Keep your foot on the clutch—no tapping—and shift into reverse."

I went through the mental imagery, and the physical motions, and tried to shift from neutral into reverse. My heart started beating faster, and I could tell I was getting nervous.

"I don't like this," I blurted. I opened my eyes.

"How did you feel, trying to skip your ritual, even in your imagination?"

"Nervous! I felt like I was going to run into something, for sure." I admitted. "Even though I knew I was sitting on a chair in your office, I got nervous just _thinking_ about backing up."

"Okay," said Pritchard. "Does your ritual make you feel less nervous?"

"Yes," I said instantly. "That's why I do it."

"It's an interesting ritual," Pritchard said. "Nobody knows that you're doing it but you. It's completely invisible. It's harmless, really—takes maybe, what? An extra second?"

"If that," I said. "But—you know what? I never even considered what might happen if I didn't do the ritual. I just do it. I considered it a harmless little habit. But now? I'm starting to wonder if it's really a problem."

"In isolation, a single habit, magic charm, whatever you want to call it—isn't a problem. But from what I see, Mike, it seems you might be prone to developing new ones. Like you were starting to do tonight, with the valve controls. But some people collect vast numbers of rituals like that, and can hardly do anything without having to do a ritual first."

"Oh," I said. I'd never heard of anything like that, but I sure didn't want to have my life taken over by meaningless rituals.

"Sometimes," Pritchard said, "these rituals, habits, routines—whatever you want to call them—crop up when things are particularly stressful. Like, for instance, just now, it looked like you were getting ready to develop a new ritual, without even knowing what you were doing. And I would say that the past few days have probably been pretty stressful for you, is that right?"

"You bet. The freeze-up at work, and getting sent home by Cap, and having to get signed off by you—yeah, I'd say that's stressful."

"Is there anything else that's particularly stressful for you at the moment?"

I decided that honesty was the best policy, considering that I really felt like this guy would be able to help me fix whatever the hell was going wrong. Which I was starting to see had maybe been going on for a long time, without my even know it was a problem. So I told.

"Yeah. Um, the person that I broke up with—there's a lot of stuff left in my house that isn't mine. It's almost like they wanted to still have some kind of hold on me, by leaving all that stuff in my house—that used to be our house. So it's like, it's not really possible to move on, as long as this stuff is still in my house."

"What are you going to do about it?" Pritchard asked.

"Well, we had a long conversation yesterday—at least, long for us these days—and I said that I was going to pack all the stuff into boxes, which could either be collected in person or by a friend, and that if that didn't happen within four weeks, I'd put it in storage somewhere, and put the bill and the key in the mail to Boston."

"Good for you," Pritchard said. "It does sound like by leaving so many of his things in your house, he was trying to hold on in a way that really wasn't helpful."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. But then he accused me of being 'overly-controlling,' which I didn't really think was fair, since it's completely reasonable to not have all that stuff in my house. I mean, I need to just move on."

"And it sounds like he wasn't ready to admit that," Pritchard said.

"Well, by the end of the conversation, he actually—" I swallowed, hard, and looked away from Pritchard for a good minute.

"How did you know?" I asked.

"Because you went to great grammarian lengths to avoid using any pronouns with gender. You used 'they' a lot, and stated things passively. For instance 'the boxes could be collected in person.' That's a lot harder to say than 'he could collect the boxes.'"

I sat there for a moment, contemplating my future. Or possible lack thereof.

"You said everything was confidential, unless I was a danger to myself or others. Can this be confidential?"

"Of course."

"Do we need to talk about it more?"

"Probably. But not right now, unless you want to."

I didn't, really, but I wanted to get just one thing out of the way.

"We can talk about it more later, but I just want to say right now that I don't think it's part of the current problem."

"Are you comfortable with your sexuality?"

"Except for the fact that I can't ever, ever be found out at work, oddly enough, yes. I've never tried to talk myself out of it, or try to live the life of someone I'm not."

"All right. Let's get back to the current problem, then. Can you summarize, please, what the problem was with how you did the exercise today?"

"I, uh, was starting to do a strange and useless set of actions to try to make the task easier."

"And why did those actions start?"

"Because the first time I was actually able to charge the line, I'd touched all the controls to try to slow myself down. And my brain maybe decided that since I did that the time I was able to open the valve without panicking, I should do it the next time, too, so it would 'help' again. Except it doesn't help. And I might get, like, hooked on it. Like the clutch foot thing."

"Exactly."

"So, uh, how do I stop doing that stuff? I mean, I can't just stop with the clutch foot thing—not cold turkey—or I'll freak out. Even though it's a pointless thing."

"We'll get there. Right now, it doesn't seem like you have any rituals that are really getting in the way of your work—slowing things down, or appearing odd, or anything like that. Is that correct, from your perspective?"

"I'm not actually sure," I admitted. "I might have other weird things I do that I'm not even aware of any more. I don't know." The idea that I might have a lot of bizarre, useless anxiety-quelling rituals that I wasn't even aware of was really unnerving.

"Why don't you talk to Captain Stanley," Pritchard suggested, "and see if he's noticed anything."

A knot formed in my stomach. "But … but … how do I even _ask_ him that, without sounding like I've completely cracked up?"

"May I make a suggestion?"

"Please do."

"I would just ask him if he's noticed any habits you seem to have that are odd or out of place, and leave it at that. I've met him before, and he's a reasonable fellow. I think that kind of question would work fine."

"Okay," I said, feeling sicker by the minute. "I guess I kind of have to."

"If there's someone else at the station you'd be more comfortable asking, that would be fine, too."

"No," I said. "No—I'll ask Cap. He's really observant, and plus he won't give me shit about it."

Pritchard looked at me closely. "How are you feeling about all of this, Mike?"

My voice shook as I answered. "Really, really shitty. Scared, I guess. I mean, I thought this was going to be a little thing—figure out why I froze up and make it not happen again. But I guess I'm more screwed up than I realized. A _lot_ more screwed up."

"Mike, these are all things that we can work on. In fact, if I can see you charge a line tomorrow without doing any rituals, I'll be comfortable signing you off to return to work. We need to continue to work together, because it does appear that this is something that could develop further if it's not addressed."

"Okay," I said shakily. "But what if I can't do it? What if I freeze up again?"

"If you do, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. All right?"

"Okay."

"Do you want to talk any more, or would you like to go home?"

"I just want to ask one more thing. These things that I do—are they some sort of disease? You said something about how there are people that have lots and lots of these rituals."

"There's a condition," Pritchard said carefully, "called Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. You meet some, but not all, of the criteria for that diagnosis."

I didn't like the sound of that at all—none of those three words sounded good.

"What does that even mean?" I asked. "I mean, I understand all the words, but put it all together and it's medical mumbo jumbo."

"OCD is very complicated—and as I said, you don't meet all the criteria. But in a nutshell, it's an anxiety-related disorder where people have unwanted and repeated ideas or thoughts, which are sometimes called obsessions, that make them feel driven to do something to make those feelings go away—and the things they do are the compulsions. Sometimes the compulsions turn into rituals, and not doing the rituals can cause great anxiety. And sometimes, the rituals get so out of hand that they interfere with life and work."

I felt a trickle of sweat fall down my spine. "Is that why I don't meet the criteria? Because things haven't gotten out of hand enough?" I asked.

"That's one reason, yes. But mainly, the reason I'll stay away from that diagnosis at this time is that I think what you're really dealing with is a more generalized pattern of anxiety, which I feel is really at the root of the difficulties you've been having lately."

I glared at him. "I don't get how you can even say that. I mean, I'm not a fearful person—not a coward. Cowards can't do my job."

Pritchard shook his head vigorously. "No, no—I'm not implying you're a coward, not at all. Or that you're afraid of a lot of things. I'm sorry you thought that. In the psychological realm, the word 'anxiety' is used to mean excessive worrying or excessive thinking about a variety of things."

"Oh. Like what I was saying yesterday about worrying about stuff and not being able to switch it off and think of other things."

"Exactly. That's a good example of anxiety. Everybody does that sort of thing sometimes, but it becomes a problem when it interferes with life." He paused. "Now that you know what I mean by anxiety, do you feel like there are ever times when anxiety interferes with life or work?"

I thought about that for a good long time, but the answer was pretty clear. "Yeah," I admitted. "Like when I can't sleep because I'm going over and over and over some stupid thing I said or did. Or like how I don't talk much at work, because I'm afraid I'll accidentally say something that will out me, and then that's it for me in this career."

"Can you think of anything that happened today, aside from the practice with the engine, where anxiety might have gotten in your way?"

That one took me a second—he must have had something in mind, so it must have been something I talked about or— "My shirt. I was ten minutes late because I was worried about how my shirt looked. And I don't like being late, but I was so worried about the god damned shirt that I was anyhow. And then I was worried about being late."

"Exactly." He folded his hands, like he was showing me he was done writing anything down. That was fine with me. "I know there's not a lot of time between now and our next appointment, which is tomorrow morning at ten, but I'd like you to try something in the mean time."

"Okay," I said warily.

"Take something from your daily life, your daily routine, that you're very particular about, and try to do it a slightly different way. Think about how you feel when you do it differently. I don't want to make you extremely uncomfortable, so don't let it go that far. Just push a little bit, to see what happens. And we'll talk about that tomorrow."

"But … like what?"

"Well, you said people might think you're a neat freak. Try doing something tonight that makes a mess. Just a small one. Don't clean it up, and see how that goes."

I didn't love the idea—I mean, let's face it: I _am_ a neat freak. But I'd try it. Just to prove to myself that it wasn't a big deal.

"Okay. I'll do that."

"All right." He handed me a card. "And I should have given you this yesterday. This is the number for my answering service. If you have any kind of emergency outside of regular hours, please do call, and they'll get a hold of me right away. Any time of the day or night, all right?"

"Okay. But I don't want to bother you or anything."

"Think of it this way. What if people didn't want to bother the fire department in the middle of the night? If it's an emergency, you'll know it's an emergency. Call."

"All right." I put the card in my wallet. "So, can I go?"

"Absolutely. I'll see you tomorrow at ten."

"Thanks, Doc," I said, as I stood up to go. "Really—thanks."

I drove home, thinking about everything Pritchard had said. Did I have other 'rituals,' as he called them, that I wasn't even aware of?

I went into the house, and took my shoes off by the door as usual. Is that a ritual? No—lots of people don't wear shoes inside the house. Plus, shoes track in dirt and scuff up the floors.

I realized I was hungry again, and made myself a sandwich and ate it. As soon as I was done, I washed my dishes and put them in the drainer. Was that a ritual? No—leaving dirty dishes around is untidy. But am I _too_ tidy? What would happen if I left the dishes every once in a while?

I decided to try do an experiment, like Pritchard wanted me to. I cut up an apple on a cutting board, and left the core, the knife, and the cutting board out on the counter. I would clean them up in the morning. I ate the apple at the bar in the kitchen while I read the day's mail. Junk, all of it. I filed it in the wastebasket.

I set up the guest room bed, since my bedroom was half painted and had no furniture in it. With any luck, I could finish the walls tomorrow and tackle the floor the next day. I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash up for bed. All the while, I thought about the cutting board and knife on the counter. Was I just thinking about them because Pritchard had gotten me all worked up? Or was I thinking about them because I couldn't help thinking about them? I really didn't want to think about them—I wanted to climb into the guest room bed and sleep.

I lay down in bed. My mind kept wandering to roaches, fruit flies, mold, germs—possible consequences of dirty dishes being left out. I tried to ignore these ideas—I mean, what could happen overnight? But I lay there for over an hour, trying desperately to think of something else—anything else—but I failed. Eventually, I decided I wasn't going to get any sleep with those dishes sitting there on the counter, so I got up, and washed them.

I went back into the bathroom to get a drink of water and take another leak before trying again to sleep. I scrutinized my mirror image, my backwards self. I thought of myself as a person who is in control of things. But it was beginning to feel like the exact opposite—that the things that I worked hard to control, were actually in control of me.

And I just didn't see how I was ever going to get out of this vicious cycle.

**TBC**


	5. Kitchen, and Sleep

Chapter 5: Kitchen, and Sleep

I woke up in the middle of the night, sure that something was dreadfully wrong. I reached for the light on the nightstand, and didn't find it. I remembered then that I was in the guest room, while my own room was in disarray while I remodeled it to be exactly the way I wanted it. To get rid of the last traces of one of Boston's newest residents.

I sat on the edge of the narrow guest-room bed, and tried to think of what was bothering me. The clock on the wall read 1:15—not quite halfway through the night for someone who kept my kind of hours. I'd locked all the doors and windows, and the truck was in its bay of the garage. The stove was off, I hadn't been ironing or anything, so nothing was going to catch on fire. But something just felt wrong, wrong, wrong. I knew I was anxious about the fact that in the morning, I should have been going to work, but wouldn't be, but I didn't think that was what woke me up. I sometimes had trouble getting to sleep, but once I was out, that was usually it.

There was nothing for it—I'd have to get up and look around. I turned on the room light, and looked around the spare room. Nothing looked out of place, or broken, or anything like that. I went to the hallway and turned the light on there, as well. It was fine. So was the bathroom. But something was really wrong—I could tell.

The dining area looked fine—but my head started buzzing as I went around the counter into the kitchen. As I looked around, I realized what it was. The cutting board and knife I'd tried to leave unwashed earlier were drying in the dish drainer. And they weren't really clean.

That was it. I'd left them on the counter for at least an hour last evening, and I hadn't washed them any more thoroughly than I usually would have.

All right. I'd take care of them, and then I could get back to bed. I filled the sink with hot water from the tap, but I knew there was no way it was going to be hot enough to really get those things clean. So I put the kettle on the stove, to boil some water. Boiling water would kill anything.

While I waited for the water to boil, I contemplated the counter. The spot where I'd left the mess couldn't have been clean, either. I got the bleach out from under the sink, and poured some straight onto the counter.

When the kettle started to whistle, I quickly washed the dishes, and rinsed them with boiling water. I let everything steam in the sink while I took care of the countertop. By the time I finished dealing with the bleach, the dishes were cool enough to handle, so I put everything into the dish drainer, rinsed and dried my hands, turned out all the lights, and went back to the guest room. At one forty-five, I was ready to go back to sleep, but sleep once again eluded me.

I thought and thought about what could be wrong. I went over everything I'd done to clean the kitchen—I didn't think I'd missed anything. When I stopped and thought about what I'd just done, I knew it was completely ridiculous, but I also knew I wasn't going to get to sleep until I'd fixed the problem. So I went over all my procedures again, and again. I went back to the kitchen, just to look, because maybe seeing the scene of the crime, so to speak, would bring something back to me.

I looked at the kitchen. Nothing out of place. The cutting board and knife were in the dish drainer. The counter was immaculate. I looked through the kitchen again, and then it hit me.

I'd put the clean dishes into the dish drainer, which had just held some not-so-clean dishes. Part of me was appalled that I would have to clean the dishes again, and also the drainer, but another part of me was relieved that I'd found the problem, because once it was taken care of I could go back to sleep.

It took two kettles of boiling water to get the job totally done, but this time it was well and truly clean. At two thirty, I crawled back into bed, exhausted and frustrated. I knew perfectly well that everything I'd just spent over an hour doing was ridiculous, but I also had to go to sleep, and I knew I couldn't until things were right.

Even though I was exhausted, sleep didn't come. I couldn't stop thinking about the mess. But I also couldn't stop thinking about how disturbed I was about what I'd just had to do to be able to get to sleep.

At three o'clock, I still wasn't asleep. Something still wasn't right. But what? I went through the entire house, looking and looking, but nothing seemed wrong. I didn't love the fact that the bedroom was in a temporary disarray, but even my neat-freak brain could understand the imaginary "Please Pardon Our Dust" sign that accompanied such work.

There were no two ways about it—I was stuck. I could probably clean the kitchen all night and not feel any better. I decided not to clean it any more. I could start cleaning the bedroom, or continue with the painting, and see if that helped. But I knew it wouldn't. I knew I was going to be up all night, and I knew I was completely exhausted, and completely unhinged by the feeling that something _just wasn't right._

I decided just to go back to bed, and if I didn't sleep, I didn't sleep. I turned the light off, and closed my eyes. Usually, when I was tired, closing my eyes felt great. But tonight, as soon as my eyes closed, I was sure that I was missing something important—something I shouldn't miss—maybe something about whatever wasn't right.

I went back to the bathroom to re-do my bedtime routine. Maybe starting over would undo the bad feelings I was having. I used the toilet, washed up, brushed my teeth, and went back to bed.

At three forty-five, I leapt out of bed, this time completely sure that something was dreadfully wrong. My heart was pounding, and I was breathing hard. I went back out to the kitchen, and the terrible feeling just got worse. I breathed harder and harder—I had to, because I just couldn't catch my breath. Was I having a heart attack? That would be just perfect—I really hadn't left things in order. I really didn't want to call 9-1-1; I didn't need a bunch of strangers trooping into my house just to tell me I was going fucking nuts. I already knew that.

Besides, 9-1-1 was for emergencies. Was this an emergency? This feeling that I couldn't catch my breath? My fingers and toes were tingling, my chest was hurting, and I was lightheaded. Yeah, it was starting to feel like an emergency, but I couldn't face the idea of having Squad 47 come barging through my door at three—no, four—in the morning.

Maybe it was a Dr. Pritchard kind of emergency. Did he _really_ mean I should call any time if it was an emergency? One way to find out. I retrieved his card from my wallet, and dialed, hands shaking, fingertips numbs. The answering service took my number and said to call back if he didn't call me within fifteen minutes.

One minute later, the phone rang.

"Hello?" I panted.

"Mike, it's Dr. Pritchard. What's wrong?"

"I can't catch my breath—there's something wrong in the house, and I don't know what it is! I cleaned the kitchen so well, but it's still not right, and I'm out of ideas for things I can do to make it right! And it's kind of your fault—I did that experiment, like you said, and I left a mess out, and now nothing is right, and I can't even breathe!" I didn't really mean to blame him—that just sort of popped out. I panted and wheezed into the phone, hoping that he was hearing my dying breaths.

"Okay, Mike. Here's what I want you to do. Do you have any small paper bags around?"

"Yeah," I managed to say.

"Go get one, and breathe into it for a little while. Don't hang the phone up. But come back to the phone when you have the bag, all right?"

I thought I knew what he was getting at—I'd seen Gage and DeSoto use paper bags over the faces of people who were panicking. It seemed to help them slow their breathing down. So I took a bag from a drawer, and put it over my nose and mouth, and breathed in and out, in and out. The crinkle of the bag was so loud I thought it would wake the whole neighborhood, but I could see the bag inflating and deflating more and more slowly. I could feel my hands and feet again, and felt like my breathing was under control.

I put the bag down, and picked up the phone.

"Doc?"

"I'm here—did the bag help your breathing?"

"Yeah—I think that's under control now."

"Good. I'm glad you called me. Do you feel up to telling me more about the experiment that left a mess, and why you think you panicked?"

"I guess so—I mean, I'm awake anyhow, and it doesn't look like I'm gonna get to sleep any time soon." I told him the entire story of the experiment, the one o'clock wake-up, and all my efforts to make the kitchen right again. "And I know, Doc, when I think about it, that everything I did was completely absurd. I know, when I think about it rationally, that there's nothing wrong with the kitchen—nothing! But I just can't shake the feeling that something's wrong! And I can't sleep, even though I'm exhausted."

"I'm sure you are—you had a hard day, and then you've worked half the night. But let's try something. I'd like you to do something, anything, that you might do to relax during the day. Particularly something that you can instantly put down. Reading would be perfect—do you like to read?"

"Yeah—I have a book I'm in the middle of."

"Okay—why don't you read for a while, until you're really, really sleepy. And when you can't keep your eyes open, can't focus on the page, go back to your bed. I'm not going to tell you to try not to think about the kitchen, because I don't think that's how your mind works. But if your thoughts flash back to the kitchen when you're in bed, pick an image from your book, and concentrate on that. See how that goes. And remember, the worst that could happen is that you'll be tired tomorrow, right?"

"Right," I said, reluctantly. "Okay—I'll give it a try. I'm sorry I bothered you."

"You didn't bother me—any more than people who have fires in the middle of the night 'bother' the fire department by calling. Right?"

"Right—it's annoying, but it's part of the job." I sighed. "All right. I'll try it. I'll let you know how it went at our appointment in—" I checked the clock— "five and a half hours."

"Good. I'll see you then."

I brought my book into the bedroom, and read in bed until I couldn't do it any more. I put the book down, and turned off the light. I thought once about the kitchen, but quickly flipped my thoughts to the heroics of the spy in the book I'd been reading.

I must have eventually fallen asleep, because the next time I opened my eyes, the room was bright, and the clock said it was just past seven. I never slept that late—well, hardly ever. I felt like I did after a long shift where there were multiple night calls—except without the consolation of having helped anyone.

I plodded my way through a shower, and breakfast. I had over an hour to kill before I had to leave for my appointment with Pritchard, and then the visit I'd promised Gage. I knew I should make him some more food, or something, but I didn't want to deal with being in the kitchen. An hour wasn't enough to work on the painting, but I had another task I knew I could work on.

I didn't want to be in the kitchen, but that was where there was the most work to be done to get _his_ stuff packed up. Armed with boxes and a pile of newspapers, I started wrapping and packing, and within an hour, I had a good bit of his kitchen stuff squared away. And, I realized I was feeling less anxious about the kitchen. Huh. Maybe just being in the room, but not thinking about messes or germs, was a useful activity. I was sure Pritchard would be able to tell me.

I drove to HQ, which took forever in the late rush-hour traffic. I waited at the end of the hallway that Pritchard's office was on. There was a bench, there, which I supposed was a handy place for people to wait who didn't necessarily want passers-by to know who they were actually waiting for. I carefully avoided looking when Pritchard's door opened, because I figured whoever was coming out didn't really want anyone looking at them. At exactly ten, I knocked on Pritchard's door.

"Come on in."

I went in.

"Mike. Have a seat."

I took my usual seat. Great—I was in a shrink's office, and I had a 'usual' seat. But I knew I'd better get used to it.

I didn't say anything—was that a control maneuver? I didn't care.

"I'm glad you called, last night. How did the rest of your night go?"

I shrugged. "I read my book. I eventually got to sleep. Maybe got two hours of sleep. I'm pretty wrecked right now, and I still have to deal with this session and I still have to go see Gage."

"I'm wondering," Pritchard asked, "if you often have trouble sleeping."

"Not like last night," I said. "That was a first—waking up in the middle of the night and freaking out like that. I swear, I thought I was having a heart attack or something. But yeah—a couple times a week I have trouble getting to sleep. Only at home, though—never at work."

"That's interesting. Why do you suppose that is?"

I'd thought about it before. "One thing is, I'm not worried about getting a good night's sleep so I can be in good shape for a shift."

"That makes sense," said Pritchard. "A lot of people keep themselves awake by worrying about not being able to sleep. Do you think there are other reasons?"

"Yeah—when I'm not at home, I can't do any of the chores or tasks that I might be worried about getting done. Sure, there's always stuff to do at work, but I'm not, you know, totally responsible for it all. When it's lights-out, if I finished the jobs Cap gave me that day, I can almost always get to sleep."

"So it helps, being someplace where you don't have to be completely in charge of your own actions."

"I guess so."

"Any other thoughts on why you might sleep better at the fire station?"

"Not really."

"I didn't realize that you were having so much trouble sleeping," Pritchard said. "I think if I'd realized that, I wouldn't have suggested that you try experimenting with violating some of your routines. I'm very sorry that the experiment you tried yesterday was so upsetting."

I studied the pattern on the carpet. "Yeah. Well—I guess it did kind of drive home how screwed up I really am."

"Mike—let me make one thing clear. My opinion is that yes, you have some things that are getting in the way of your life and work, and that these are things you need to work on. But 'screwed up' is far from how I see you. If it were, I would be requesting that you be placed on an extended medical leave. But I'm not."

I looked back up at him, one eyebrow raised. "Even after I had you paged at three thirty in the morning, when I was practically having a heart attack because there might be a germ or two in my kitchen?"

"First of all—you weren't having a heart attack. You were hyperventilating, which does some pretty strange things to your brain and body, but as you saw, was easy to resolve. If you'd like a more complete medical explanation I can give you that." He looked back at me.

"No, that's all right. All that medical stuff usually just passes right through my brain without sticking, anyhow."

"And second of all, what do you think is more crazy: asking for help from someone who's told you to ask any time, or not asking for help?"

"Not asking," I admitted.

"Good—I'm glad you feel that way."

We talked some more about the panic attack I'd had in the middle of the night, and also about some of the other things that I tended to be very particular about.

"I guess you're going to want me to try an experiment again, huh?"

"Yes—but not today. In fact, if you're not feeling up to it, we can cancel the appointment at the academy tonight, if you'd prefer."

I thought about that for a minute. I was pretty tired, but I also didn't want to put things off. "No," I said slowly, "let's go ahead with that."

"All right. How are you feeling about trying that again?"

"Not bad, actually. I think maybe it helped that I went to see Gage yesterday."

"Is he still in the hospital?"

"Yeah—for a while yet, it sounds like. He was in really bad shape." I shuddered, remembering how he looked while Roy was working on him.

"What about your visit with him did you find helpful?"

"Well, for one thing, I said I was sorry about what happened, and he started in on how it wasn't my fault, and that I was exactly where I was supposed to be, doing my job. Even though I already knew that, rationally, for some reason it helped to hear him say it. Him, specifically."

"Because your runaway thought processes were making you blame yourself for his injuries."

"Yeah."

"Anything else about that visit?"

"He, uh, told me he'd had a similar experience. I guess it's not really my business to say what it was, but he had the same kind of thing happen to him, where something terrible happened while he was starting an IV, and then the next time he went to start one, he couldn't. So he kind of got it. Kind of understood."

"Good. And did he describe how he worked out his difficulty?"

"Yeah—and he froze up the first time he tried it for practice, too."

"Why do you think it made you feel better to hear that?"

"I don't know—I guess partly because … nah, it's too ridiculous."

"Try me," Pritchard said drily.

"Uh, okay. Gage—he's like a superhero, kind of. He's not just a paramedic, he's also a highly qualified and skilled technical rescue guy. High angle rope rescues, trenches, confined spaces, extreme heights, water rescues—all those things that freak normal people out—he does 'em all, without batting an eye. So to hear that he had a freak-out just like mine? That made my thing seem a little less crazy."

"It wasn't crazy, Mike. What you experienced was a normal human reaction to an abnormal situation."

I thought about that phrase. "That's a good way to put it. I mean, most people don't see buildings blow up with their friends inside."

"No, they don't."

"But the abnormal thing was when I started to do a new ritual, right?"

"Again, normal and abnormal are highly loaded words, and complicated terms. I would say," Pritchard furrowed his brow and tapped his pen on his notebook a few times, "you were on the verge of developing a counterproductive habit that would interfere with the task in the long run, and would also strengthen your tendency to develop other such habits in the future."

"Makes sense. I guess I should try to stop saying I'm crazy, too."

"I'll agree with you wholeheartedly on that one."

"More that I have some things to work on. Things that are getting in the way of my life and my job."

"Precisely."

"And is the idea that you're gonna get me to stop doing all those things?"

Pritchard shook his head. "Not exactly. The way I think you should approach this is that you're the one who's going to be doing the work. I'm just going to be here to help you figure out what the work is, and how to do it. Everyone's different—so the things that work for any particular individual may be a disaster for someone else."

"How will I know when we're, you know, done?"

"I'll discharge you when the two of us agree that you're ready to work independently on changing some of your habits and ways of thinking. But the door will always be open, even when we don't have meetings scheduled."

"But what if I'm _not_ ever ready? What if I just can't get rid of _any_ of my habits? What if I _never_ back a fire engine without tapping my foot? And what if I have _another_ thing where I freeze up, and—"

Pritchard held his hand up like a traffic cop. "Mike."

I caught my breath for a second. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize. Why do you think I interrupted you?"

"Because I was being negative?" I hazarded.

"No—try again. Take your time."

I thought about all the things we'd talked about, and thought about how I'd just worked myself into a tizzy.

"Because I was getting myself all worked up, and starting to breathe hard and all that, about something that might not even happen?"

"Exactly. Here's another idea for you to think about. When the body and mind are under stress, our bodies produce some substances that help us react quickly to danger."

"Do you mean adrenaline?"

"Yes—adrenaline is a hormone produced by the body. Back when we were cavemen, it helped us be ready to run away or fight when there was danger. It makes your heart beat faster, and makes you breathe faster, and kind of makes your muscles contract more quickly. All useful things, in an emergency."

"But if it's not an emergency, maybe not so useful?" I asked.

"Exactly. How did you feel, mentally, when your heart was pounding and your breathing was fast, and your muscles were tight?"

"It felt a lot like fear," I admitted, "even though there wasn't any danger."

"Right. And remember the whole business about our brains associating Event A with Event B?"

"Yeah."

"What if Event A is talking about working on your habits, and Event B is feeling the effects of adrenaline, like you were just now when you got worked up?"

"Ummm … oh. Maybe next time I started thinking of working on my problems, I'd kind of remember the physical feeling of fear. And then I'd get anxious, and maybe there'd be more adrenaline, and then I'd get the same physical feeling again."

"Very good—that's exactly what I was getting at. I think it's going to be pretty important for you to get adept at recognizing when you're having that kind of reaction, and finding ways to switch it off."

"So I don't get into a cycle. So I don't, I don't know, do fear-like things when there's no actual fear. It makes sense to have a lot of adrenaline when you're in a room that's about to flash over and you have to bail out of a window, but not when you're thinking about a dirty kitchen. Which wasn't even really dirty."

"Right."

I sat for a moment, continuing my analysis of the pattern in the carpet. "I'm not so good at switching things off."

"I realize that. Learning how to redirect your thinking will be a big part of what you'll be working on."

"Okay."

"We're almost out of time again. But I want to check in with you about one more thing. This is your first day when you should be at work, but aren't. How's that going for you?"

I shook my head. "To tell the truth, I'm so tired I don't even care. I'm gonna stop by the hospital, and then I don't know what I'll do. It's an hour to and from my place, so there's no sense in going home just to come back here at six."

"See if you can get some rest between now and then, all right?"

"Okay." Even if I had to just park the truck somewhere and tip the seat back, I knew I'd have to get some shuteye somehow before the next try at charging a line. "I'll see what I can do."

"All right—I'll see you at six, at the academy. This time, I'll want you to try charging that line without any extra movements."

"Yeah. I figured. See you then."

**TBC**

A/N: OK, so that was a psych-heavy chapter. Up next: another visit with Gage, and another test drive.


	6. Rituals

Chapter 6: Rituals

I stopped at a grocery store on the way to Rampart, and picked up a bag of cherries, a deck of cards, and a couple of magazines. I checked at the information desk, just to make sure Gage was in the same room, and headed up.

I knocked on the door, and immediately heard the expected "C'mon in!"

"Hey, Gage."

"Oh, good. Thought it might be you. Take a load off," Gage said, gesturing at a chair.

"Brought you some stuff." I handed him the bag, and flopped down into the chair. It was actually fairly comfortable.

He rifled through the bag. "Excellent! I'm cutting down on the drugs, so I might actually be able to read. And cherries—that's great. How'd you know those'r my favorites?"

"I dunno. They're in season. They're good."

"Lotsa fiber, too. They're always sayin' around here, 'eat your fiber, so you don't get all—' well, you know. But then they give you _crap_ to eat. And a deck of cards—well, this is your big chance, pal. I'm cuttin' down on the drugs, but I still can't add two and two."

"My big chance? Uh, who always wins card games at the station, Gage?"

"All right, all right—you always win. You got the best poker face, and you know how to keep your mouth shut. Anyhow—thanks a lot. I guess you know you're gettin' better when you start to be with it enough to get bored, insteada just sleepin' all the time. Speaking of which—you look like you didn't sleep a wink! No offense, but man, Mike—you okay?"

I debated just brushing off his concern, but what the hell. "I didn't sleep well."

He frowned. "Your thing at the academy—it didn't go so good, did it."

Okay, so whatever drugs he was on yesterday _didn't_ keep him from remembering our conversation. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. Dollar. Whatever. "Nope. I froze the first time—just like before."

"But then you did it?" he asked.

"Uh, not really. I did it—yeah, I charged the line. But I started doing a weird sort of … I don't know, maybe a lucky charm kind of thing—and the doc wasn't so keen on that. I wasn't, either, after we talked about how that kind of thing could get out of hand for me."

"Whaddaya mean, lucky charm?"

I explained what I'd started doing. "Ohhh," he said, nodding. "Yeah—I know what he means about that stuff getting outta hand."

"Yeah?"

"Uh huh. You know I was at 10s before our crew all started when Station 51 opened, right? We had a probie, in prob'ly my third year, who washed out 'cause of stuff like that."

I kind of wanted to know, but kind of _didn't_ want to know.

"Like what?"

"Well, every station's got their superstitions, right? I mean, our shift doesn't really have a good-luck ritual that all of us do, but some of us have our little things. You know how Chet always gives the dog a pat when we're goin' out on a structure fire. And I've got my Smokey the Bear picture, and I always say g'mornin' to him at the beginning of every shift. That sorta thing." He shifted around, and winced. "Can you stick a pillow under that cast—yeah, right there. Thanks."

He shifted around some more, and then settled back down and continued his story. "But at 10s, there was an old bell—it used to be outside some old station somewhere—and when the tones dropped, we'd all touch it on the way from the day room to the bay. But _this_ kid—he started to have to not just tap it once, but do a whole routine with it. And he did other stuff, too—if he even _saw_ blood at a scene, he had to wash his hands over, and over, and over, till they were raw. And he started to have routines with fireground stuff, too—like he started touching the bottom three rungs of a ladder before he'd go up it. And—well, there was more."

I sat there, silently, identifying with everything he was saying about this kid. I kind of wanted to hear more, but I also didn't want to get any new ideas. Especially about the blood thing. So I kind of cut him off.

"So he washed out because of that stuff?"

"He washed out, that's for sure. Chief Conrad wouldn't say why, but everyone kind of assumed it was because of all his routines. It got to the point where he could hardly do anything without taking a few seconds to do his thing. And sometimes a few seconds really count."

I sat there, thinking about how I could've easily headed in that direction. "I guess maybe it was kind of lucky for me that Cap jumped right on me freezing up like that."

Gage tilted his head. "How so?"

"Because otherwise I might've really started down that road. But the department shrink is getting me straightened right out."

"Shrink?"

Oh, crap. I'd forgotten I hadn't said anything about that yesterday when I told him about the gig at the academy—just some nonsense about a suggestion from a friend. Shit.

He must've seen the look on my face.

"Don't worry about it, Mike. If that's what's gonna help, that's what you should do. Nothin' to be ashamed of, either."

I looked anywhere but at him. "I, uh … Cap made me go. Department policy. Uh, don't tell anyone, okay?"

"You bet I won't. Nobody's business but yours. And I know you hate it when people don't mind their own business. I see how you always take off when Marco and Chet start in with the gossip."

I hadn't thought anyone noticed that.

"Yeah. I think people oughta just leave other people's business alone."

"I'm right there with ya, pal. I mean, we've all got our private lives, right? Just because we live in each other's pockets three days a week doesn't mean we have to pry. Anyhow," he continued, "no worries here. Okay?"

"Okay. Thanks."

I sat there in the comfy chair that certainly didn't belong in the room, getting lower and lower. I decided to get up for a minute so I wouldn't fall asleep right there.

"Lemme go wash that bag of cherries off in the sink for you." I grabbed the bag of fruit, and filled it with water in the bathroom sink and rinsed the cherries. I returned with a terrycloth towel and a paper cup, and set everything down on his table. "Towel for the drips, cup for the pits."

"Thanks, man. I'm starved. You want some?" He readjusted himself in the bed, looking none too comfortable.

"No thanks—I had another bag in the car on the way over."

He dug in. "Wow—didn't realize how hungry I was. I guess cutting down on the meds'll do that." He was halfway through the bag of cherries before it knew what had hit it.

"You seem a lot more like yourself than yesterday." He did, too—even though he still had an IV line, and greenish-brown bruises all down one side of his face, and, of course, the cast from toes to mid thigh, and even though he looked like he was in more pain—he sounded like himself.

"What, you mean not giggling and drooling all over myself? True, but the flip side is that it hurts like a sonofabitch right now." I could see a sheen of sweat on his face, even though it was quite cool in the room. He looked like he needed some distraction.

"Hey, how'd you luck out with no roommate?" I asked.

"Oh, I think it doesn't hurt to have friends in the ER, even though they don't have anything to do with what goes on up here." There was a strained quality to his voice, but he went on.

"Sure, if they get full up here, I end up with somebody. Like last week I had a guy who flipped his kayak over and couldn't get it upright again, and practically drowned and got pneumonia. He was all right, though. He—" Gage cut himself off, and wrinkled his nose like he smelled something funny. "Shit, no, not that!" He pinched his nose, and I was baffled.

He let out with a huge sneeze.

"Bless you," I said automatically, before I saw how the abrupt movement of the sneeze had affected him.

He was hunched over himself, elbows drawn in, fisted hands pressed to his temples. What I could see of his face was a greenish gray color, and instantly sweatier than before.

"Jesus," I said. "All right—hang on, okay? I'll be right back." I didn't want to just leave him like that, but I couldn't do a thing for him.

I dashed out to the hallway, and saw a nurse emerge from a room three doors down.

"Excuse me, Nurse, help please!"

It was the same nurse who complained about yesterday's spaghetti mess.

"He's really in trouble—he sneezed, and I guess he jarred his leg, and he's really hurting—looks like he's gonna pass out or maybe puke. Can you do anything?"

"Yes—thanks for getting me." She set the tray she had down on the counter at the nurses' station, and went behind the counter. She unlocked a cabinet and got several items out, and we both burst back into Gage's room.

"Mr. Gage? I have some pain meds, all right?"

It looked like he might have nodded; I couldn't really tell. He still had his arms drawn in tightly to his body, but now his hands were covering his face. I could see his jaw muscles standing out, like he had a couple of those cherries tucked into each cheek, but I knew that wasn't it.

"Mr. Gage, can you straighten out your arm so I can get to your IV port?"

He didn't move.

The nurse took his left arm, and tried to straighten it out, without luck.

"Would you mind giving me a hand?" she asked me. "Just straighten his arm out enough that I can get in to the port."

I had no idea what the port looked like, but I thought I'd start on straightening the arm anyhow.

I grabbed Gage's upper arm—all wiry muscle, quivering with tension, and his wrist, and started gently tugging them apart.

"C'mon, Johnny—gotta let go. The nurse is gonna give you something, but you gotta open up your arm." I applied slow, steady pressure, and talked to him the whole time. "That's it—just let your arm go … attaboy Johnny, almost there."

As his arm opened just past a ninety degree angle, Johnny suddenly stopped fighting me, and I tried to get out of the way so the nurse could get in to the port, which I could now see was a little plastic thing attached to the tubing. But I found I couldn't go far, since as soon as he let his arm relax, he grabbed my forearm and held on like his life depended on it. He was so strong I could feel the two long bones compressing together near my wrist, but if that was what he needed to get through it, I didn't care. The nurse went around behind me, and pushed the contents of the first syringe slowly into the port.

Johnny still had his other hand over his face, but I could see his eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and his face was ashen. As whatever the nurse had put into the port started to kick in, his death grip on my forearm relaxed, but he didn't let go. His eyes stayed clamped shut, but he started to breathe more regularly.

The nurse emptied another small syringe into the port, very slowly, and then did the same with a much bigger syringe.

"What is all that stuff?" I asked the nurse.

"The first one was morphine, for the pain, and the next was an anti-nausea drug—a lot of people throw up when they get IV morphine—and then this one is to flush the last drug all the way through, because it's one that you don't want a whole lot of hanging out in one place." She finished up, and recapped all the syringes. "He should feel better in a minute." She looked down at his hand, which was still clutching my arm. "You okay, there?"

"Me? Yeah."

"You're probably going to have fingerprints."

"Probably," I agreed.

"I'll come back in a few minutes to check on him, and I'll bring you an ice pack."

"Don't worry about it," I said.

"I _said_, I'll bring you an ice pack," she repeated, as she left the room. I didn't argue. I knew when I was beat.

I felt awkward, standing next to Johnny's bed, with him still clutching my arm. I shifted slightly, and my movement must have made him realize that he was grabbing me, and he let go. He rubbed his hands over his face, and slowly opened his eyes.

He mumbled something unintelligible.

"What's that, Johnny?"

"Shorry," he slurred, staring back at me glassily.

"Geez, no—nothing to apologize for. Are you—is your leg feeling any better?"

"Guesso. Sorry," he repeated. "Did'n meana grab you."

"Don't worry about it."

Johnny closed his eyes, and I wasn't really sure if he was still awake.

"Uh, maybe I should go, and let you get some rest," I said.

His eyes snapped open again. "Don' go." His eyes were still glassy, but suddenly they were wide open, and shifting around the whole room, until they settled on me again. "C'n you stay? I jus' can't take it."

"Sure," I said, as I sat back down on the chair. "Sure I can." I had no idea what he couldn't take, and why he would want a crazy person sitting with him when he was feeling so terrible, but I didn't try to argue with him. Hell, the rest of the guys were on shift, and I honestly didn't think he had too many friends outside our shift.

He closed his eyes for fifteen seconds or so, and then opened them again. This cycle repeated twice more. It seemed like he might actually be dozing off, then waking up, over and over.

"'m so screwed, man," he said, when his eyes had been open for a few seconds.

"You looked pretty shaky even before you sneezed."

"She was prolly right," he said.

"Sorry?"

"Nurse said I was tryin' t'kick the pain meds too fast."

"You did look like you were hurting more today than yesterday," I said.

"Yeah." His eyes drooped shut again, and stayed that way for long enough that I thought he probably really was asleep. I was just about to close my eyes myself, when he spoke up again.

"You gonna try again?"

"Uh, try what?"

"Chargin' a line. Y' know."

"Yeah—trying it tonight."

"You c'n do it. Nothin' happened 'causa you chargin' tha' line. That'd be magic, and there's no such thing."

He closed his eyes again.

"Trus' me on that," he said, after a few seconds.

I'd gotten used to the disjointed conversation. "That there's no such thing as magic? I know. My rational brain knows. I just have to make sure it's the one in charge."

The nurse popped in again, just as Gage's eyes were drooping closed again.

"Any better, Mr. Gage?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Why don't you close your eyes for a while," I suggested.

"Don' go, 'kay?"

I was still puzzled by his request, but I didn't have anything else to do, and he probably wouldn't even notice if I took a nap. "Okay. I don't have to be anywhere till six, and I don't think even _you_ can sleep that long."

The nurse waited till his eyes were closed, and then surreptitiously handed me a cold pack. I looked down at my arm, which I'd been paying no attention to whatsoever, and saw that there was indeed a mark forming—not a handprint per se, but more like lines between fingers. Weird. I put the cold pack over the area, and the nurse looked satisfied.

"Are you going to be here for a while?" the nurse asked in quiet tones.

"Looks like it. It sounds like he really doesn't want to be by himself, and I'm off work today, so yeah."

"Good—I think he needs a friend around. He's been desperate to go home, but we can't send people home who still need IV medications, and he can't get up and around yet, and … well, he's not tolerating it well."

"I'm not surprised. Listen—I was up all night, so I might conk out, but I'll stay till I have to leave around a quarter of six."

"Thanks—I think that'll be helpful, Mr., uh …"

"Stoker. Mike Stoker. I work with Gage. And … uh, sorry about the spaghetti mess yesterday."

She laughed quietly. "Oh, no problem. I have to pretend to be stern with patients like him, or they'll walk all over me."

"I see." I didn't, really.

An alarm sounded outside the door.

"Oops, gotta go. Thanks for staying." She swooped out the door, off to the next emergency.

As soon as she was gone, I laid my arms on the armrest, with the unnecessary-seeming ice pack balanced precariously on my forearm. In thirty seconds flat, I was out as cold as Gage.

~!~!~!~

"Roy, jus' let 'im sleep!"

"But he's dripping all over the place—he wouldn't like that."

"So take the fool col' pack off, an' then let 'im sleep. Sheesh. He won' wake up."

"I guess not, since the tones don't wake him up half the time."

~!~!~!~

I was jarred from sleep by the sound of a phone ringing. It wasn't my phone—and I wasn't in my bed—I was … oh yeah.

Gage was out cold, so I picked up the phone, figuring my voice wouldn't wake him up if the phone didn't.

"Hello, John Gage's room."

"_Stoker? Roy said you were there. It's Hank Stanley._"

"Oh, hi, Cap. Gage is sleeping. You want me to take a message?"

"_No, no—that's all right. We just have a little down time, so I thought I'd check up on him. Roy stopped by after a run, and said he was pretty out of it._"

So I _hadn't_ imagined that conversation between Gage and DeSoto. I checked the clock—two hours had gone by since I arrived.

"Yeah. He had a setback—sneezed real hard and jarred his leg. That was … a bad couple of minutes. They had to give him a shot of morphine. I think he's still sleeping it off."

I heard Cap sigh heavily on the other end of the line. "This is gonna be a long, long haul for him, Stoker—if he's even able to make it back."

"I was wondering about that."

"Speaking of which—you doing okay?"

I figured he'd get to that eventually. "I, uh, have some things I need to work on. Stuff that's been building up for a while. But I think I'll be able to be back soon, though. At least that's what the doc says."

There was a pause on the line, almost long enough that I wondered whether we'd been disconnected. "You trust this guy?"

"Absolutely," I answered, with no hesitation. "He, uh, figured some things out really fast, that I had no idea about."

"Well, we'll be glad to have you back. Take your time, though."

"I will. I might know more tonight about when I can come back. I'll give you a call before lights out."

"Wow, this guy does evening sessions?"

"Not just evening sessions, evening sessions using a fire engine from the academy. He's good, Cap—I think he really gets firemen."

"I'd hope so, since that's who he works for. Anyhow—give Gage best wishes from the whole gang. And hang onto some for yourself, all right?"

"Will do. Thanks." I had to ask my burning question. "Uh, Cap?"

"Uh-huh?"

"What'd you tell the guys—you know, about why you sent me home, and why I'm not there today?"

"Just that you were overtired and overstressed, and that you needed some time off."

I suddenly felt lighter, like I'd taken off the heavy steel tank of my SCBA and geared down. "Thanks, Cap."

"Any time."

I heard the station's tones drop in the background.

"Gotta go." He hung up abruptly, knowing I'd understand.

I put the phone back in its cradle, and watched as Gage stirred. He looked like he was settling down. I realized I was starving, but that I'd said I wouldn't leave. I begged a piece of paper and a pen off the nurse, left Gage a note, and went down to the cafeteria to grab some food. It wouldn't be great, but I'd survive.

I got everything to go, and made it back to Gage's room before he woke up again. I read one of the magazines I'd brought him while I ate my late lunch. Just as I threw the wrappers in the trash, Gage stirred again, and opened his eyes.

"Hey, you're awake," he said.

"I think that's _my_ line, pal." I looked him over—he'd regained his color, and didn't look so tense. "You doing better?"

He paused, and I could practically see the wheels turning as he took a self-inventory. "Think so. Pretty foggy, but I think it's wearing off. That musta been a good ten milligrams of MS, with the anti-nausea stuff too. Damn," he shook his head. "It sure works, but I sure hate it."

"From where I was sitting, seemed like you needed it."

He looked down at his cast. "Yeah. Guess so. And I guess I oughta get some more pills in me, too, since the IV stuff is obviously wearing off."

"Want me to grab that nurse?"

He raised his eyebrows. "I'd've thought you were too much of a gentleman, but sure—go right ahead. Whatever floats your boat."

I couldn't help blushing, but not at all for the reasons he thought. "You know what I mean. I'll go get her."

I quickly fled the room, and found the nurse doing paperwork at the nurses' station in the middle of the wing.

"Uh, Miss? Gage is awake—he said he thinks the IV stuff is wearing off, and could he please have some pills."

She looked up from her chart. "Oh, sure, Mr. Stoker. I'll be right in."

I looked at her name badge. "Thanks, uh, Miss Simmons."

I returned to the room.

"Oh, I forgot—I just talked to Cap just a minute ago. He says all the guys say hi."

"Yeah? I oughta call 'im." He reached for the phone.

"Actually, they just got toned out. Oh, and Nurse Simmons will be right in."

"Didja grab her?"

I rolled my eyes at him. "No. Good grief, Gage."

"Not your type, huh?"

Truer words had never been spoken. "Pretty much not."

He squinted at me. "What _is_ your type, anyhow?"

Oh, crap. "I dunno." I thought about a suitable evasion. Nurse Simmons was a petite, slender blonde—certainly Gage's type. I picked the opposite. "Taller, darker, I guess." That was true enough. Just … incomplete.

Nurse Simmons saved the day, thoroughly interrupting this potential train wreck by coming in not only with a little cup with two pills in it, but with equipment for taking all his vitals.

"Temperature first," she said, effectively shutting him up with the thermometer. I thanked her silently, as I got out the pack of cards and started shuffling it, so we wouldn't end up back where we started when she was done with him.

"Good," she said, shaking it down. "Ninety nine one."

"Pretty much normal for me," said Gage.

"Two tablets, 5 milligrams each, and no arguing," she said, handing him the cup with the pills and a cup of water.

"Yes ma'am," he said in his best fake meek voice.

She got the rest of his vitals, and wrote everything down in the chart she'd brought in with her. "You slept through lunch—can I bring you a sandwich?"

Damn. I should've thought of that while I was at the cafeteria. Oh well.

"Sure, thanks."

She swooped out of the room again, and returned with a sandwich and two cartons of milk as Gage and I were pretending to bicker over what card game to play. He wolfed down his food, and we started a marathon of gin rummy, interrupted by various medical and mundane tasks.

At five thirty, we'd finished what seemed like our millionth game, and Gage snuck a look at my wristwatch.

"You gotta go, huh?"

"Yeah."

"You'll do fine," he said. "Lemme know how it goes, all right?"

"Well, I probably won't be home till like nine. Maybe I should call tomorrow."

"See what happens—they turn the phones off around nine, but give it a try."

"Okay." I stood up and stretched.

"Hey, uh … thanks a lot for hanging out all day. I'm, uh … kind of a mess. It helped a lot, to not be sitting on my own all day."

I realized, then, that I was really in the same boat as he was, and that it was good for me to have company today too.

"Yeah—me too, actually."

"The guys'll prob'ly come by tomorrow morning, after their shift," Johnny said.

"I could come by in the afternoon," I offered.

"Yeah," he said. "Thanks."

I stopped at the nurses' station on my way out.

"He's all yours," I said to Nurse Simmons.

"Thank you, I think," she said. "Actually—seriously. Thanks—I think he would've had a really bad day on his own."

_And I would've, too_, I thought, as I took the elevator downstairs.

~!~!~!~

"All right, Mike—you know the drill," Pritchard said as he climbed into the officer's seat on the academy's engine. "Don't worry about the backing—we'll get to that later. For now, let's just work on charging that line."

"Okay." I had already shrugged into the borrowed turnout coat I should have been wearing last time—partly to make the whole thing one step more realistic, and partly so I wouldn't get grime all over myself. I drove the engine out to the hydrant, laid supply line the same way I had before, hooked everything up, and got myself to the pump panel.

I tried to think about anything but the exploding building as I stared at the controls.

Pritchard stood beside me.

"Do it now, Mike."

Without a glance at the controls I didn't need to touch, I grabbed the control that would charge the line I'd stretched. I pulled it out slowly, and watched the line plump up.

"Excellent!" said Dr. Pritchard. "Bleed it out, and we'll do it again."

I closed the valve and bled out the line, and returned to my spot at the pump panel.

"I'm going to make it a little harder for you this time," Pritchard said. "I want to think about that day, and think about the building. Picture the building in your mind—what part you were looking at right before you pulled the control out. Think about hearing the explosion as you pull that control."

I looked at him skeptically. "Isn't it kind of the point not to think of that?"

"No—you'll definitely think of it again. So I want you to prove to yourself that even if you _do_ think of it, you can still do what you need to."

I could feel my heart beating faster, but I tried to remember there was no danger. No—scratch that. In real life, when I was doing this, there _would_ be danger. I did what he said—I thought about the building. I put my hand on the control, and as I began to pull it out, I imagined the sound of the blast, happening at the same instant that the control started to move. My grip faltered—the whole place was going up, and Gage was still in there—but nothing I did caused that explosion to happen.

A slightly slurred tenor voice resonated in my memory. _"That'd be magic, and there's no such thing."_ I pulled a little more.

I pulled the control out until the gauge read the desired pressure. The water I was sending through the line would help protect my friends from danger.

"You did it," Pritchard said as quietly as he could and still be heard over the noise of the engine and the pump. "Bleed it out once more, all right?"

When I was at the pump panel once again, Pritchard opened the bag he'd been holding. He held out a large pair of stereo headphones, and showed me a cassette player.

"I want you to do this one more time," he said, "and this time, I'm going to play the sound of an explosion from the cassette, just as the control starts to move. Do you think you can still do it?"

"I think so," I said slowly.

"If you're not sure, or if you don't feel up to trying, we can leave it where it is for now. I'd rather see you quit while you're ahead than have another setback."

I thought about it. I'd just imagined the same thing he was going to play me the sounds of, and my rational brain had triumphed over my caveman brain.

"Yeah. I can do it."

I put the headphones over my ears, and turned to face the pump panel. I thought about the building—the brick façade, the car-lined street, the old woman DeSoto and Kelly had evacuated on a stretcher just before the building blew. The curtains waving in the windows that had been opened, futilely, for ventilation. I imagined that the line I'd stretched zig-zagged up to the front door, just like it had that day. I put my hand on the control, and as soon as I moved, the sound of an explosion rocked into my brain. I hesitated for a second—I wanted to say "there's no such thing as magic" to myself, but decided that might be a ritual, so I didn't. I just pulled. The noise of the explosion filled my head, My caveman brain told me to freeze—there was danger! But I didn't listen to it. I just pulled. I imagined fire blooming from the windows on the third floor. I imagined Gage lying in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. And I imagined Kelly and DeSoto manning that line, covering Cap and Lopez as they went inside for their one shot at finding Gage before it was too late. And out they all came, turnouts steaming, Gage's leg hanging at an odd angle as Cap and Marco rushed him out of the building.

I pictured it all, in the three seconds it took me to charge the line.

I looked at the line, completely filled out with water, and read the gauge—the pressure was right where it should be. I shut the valve again.

I put the headphones around my neck for a moment.

"Let's do it again," I said. And I knew I could.

**TBC**


	7. Caveman

Chapter 7: Caveman

"You did really well, Mike," Pritchard said from the officer's seat in the engine, after we'd parked it in the bay. "Really well."

"Thanks," I said.

"We can just talk here for a few minutes, instead of going all the way back to my office, if that's okay with you. If you want to talk more, or want to go to the office, that's fine, too."

I thought about it for a moment. I didn't feel a great need to debrief, as the evening's trials had gone well. We were scheduled for a session at ten the next morning, anyhow.

"Here's fine."

Pritchard nodded. "Any thoughts on why things went better tonight?"

I'd been thinking about that while the academy instructor and I packed up the hose. "Yeah. I realized earlier today that I kind of have two ways I use my brain. There's my rational brain, which knows perfectly well that pulling a control on the pump panel can't cause a building to explode. Then—you know how you were talking yesterday about how when we were cavemen, we needed that adrenaline reaction for fighting or running away? Well, I think I still have a caveman brain in my head, too. And sometimes it takes over. It's the one that lets me believe things like there's something really wrong in the kitchen because I cut up an apple and didn't clean up, or that if I don't tap my foot before I back the engine, I'll hit something. So I think what I need to learn is how to figure out when my caveman brain is thinking, and switch over to my modern, rational brain."

"Good, Mike. That's exactly what you need to do. Remember how you were talking about how you sometimes can't stop thinking about things, and you can't switch your brain off?"

I nodded, seeing where this was going. "Maybe that's my caveman brain, too."

"Could be. We'll talk more tomorrow morning about some strategies to flip that switch. Is there anything else you wanted to add about today?"

"Well …" I hesitated—I wasn't sure whether I wanted to tell him this next part. But I told him anyhow. "I think maybe, just maybe, I caught myself starting another ritual. But I stopped it."

"Tell me more about that," Pritchard cued.

"I started telling myself—out loud in my head, kind of—this phrase. 'There's no such thing as magic.' Because that's what Gage said to me this afternoon, and it really made sense. But then I realized, if I said that phrase in my head, over and over, that might become, sort of, I don't know—a secret, silent ritual. Does that make sense? So I decided not to do it."

"Excellent—that was some good thinking, especially in the heat of the moment."

"I guess so."

"So, it sounds like perhaps you were talking with your co-worker some today, about what you've been going through."

"Yeah." I sighed. "I didn't really mean to—but it was okay." I frowned, and revised. "It was good. He's sharp. Even when he's doped up."

"Did he say something about how it would have to be magic for the building to have exploded because you pulled the valve control?"

"Exactly."

"That's a good choice of words. Sometimes that type of association is referred to as 'magical thinking,' so he's right on target. This was your shiftmate who's in the hospital, John Gage, correct?"

"Yeah. He's having a real bad time. I sat with him the whole time between our appointments today."

"That's a long time," Pritchard said.

"Like I said, he's been having a real hard time. Not that he would say anything like that, short of 'I just can't take it,' but—well, he asked me to stay. So I did. He had one really bad episode of pain, and they had to give him an IV shot of morphine, and he was out for a while after that, so I kinda of conked out too."

"He's been in the hospital for quite a while."

"Yeah—and Cap said he's got three months in the cast, and then another three months before he's likely to be able to be cleared for work again. If he even is."

"It's no wonder, then, that he's been having a hard time. The physical injury, which sounds like it was a very severe fracture, is bad enough, but most firemen I know have a hard time with down time."

"That's sure the truth. I guess we're all a little addicted to our jobs. And Gage—well, I think he pretty much lives for the job." And just then, I had a sudden realization. "Shit—and there I was, bellyaching about my stupid little problems, when he's _way_ worse off than me." I shook my head. "Way to be selfish, Stoker."

"Hang on, hang on," Pritchard said. "First of all—I doubt you were 'bellyaching.' You said yourself that you weren't even really planning on talking with Gage about your problems, so I don't think you ought to try to convince yourself that you somehow took advantage of him."

I thought about that. "Yep. Caveman thinking, there, I guess."

"Possibly. At best, it was self-deprecatory, which is never helpful. And second of all, he asked you to stay, correct?"

I nodded.

"So …" Pritchard continued.

"So it's ridiculous to think I was somehow putting him out by being there."

"Exactly. Another thing to consider: he asked you to stay, and he said something about 'I just can't take it.' Now, I've never met this fellow, but you know him fairly well. What do those two things that he said tell you right now?"

That one took me a minute. But I thought about Gage, and whether I'd ever heard him say anything like that at work before. "He's about the toughest guy I know. He's a rescue guy, and he gets beat up a lot, but he'd rather die than admit he's hurt. So I guess, for him to say those things, he's gotta be … I don't know. Not himself."

"Another possibility that occurs to me is that he sees you as someone he can trust. You're quiet at work—you mentioned that, and your captain mentioned that—and he probably knows he can count on you not to talk about him with the other men on your shift. But the fact that he's opening up to you brings up a question I have for you: are you okay with filling that role for him? Given that I think you're in a pretty vulnerable position right now, emotionally, it's important to make sure that you're taking care of yourself."

I had an answer all ready for that one. "It's fine. I realized when I was leaving the hospital that it was good for me not to be sitting by myself all day, too."

"Good. And along those lines—I'll sign off on your paperwork at our session in the morning. There will be two conditions, though, that I want to tell you about. First, you need to keep seeing me twice a week, until I say otherwise. Of course, there may be weeks where that doesn't work out, because of the way your shifts are scheduled, but that's not a problem."

"Okay," I said. "I think it's a good idea, anyhow. But what's the other condition?"

"For the time being—that is, until I specify otherwise—you need to work only at your home station, with your regular shift."

I frowned. I'd been doing a fair amount of overtime, since the house expenses fell entirely on me these days. "Why's that?"

"Your captain obviously knows you, and was wise enough to realize what needed to happen when you froze the other day, and kind enough not to castigate you for it. I wish I could say that all the captains in this department would do the same, but I know that's not true. I'd like you to tell him a little bit about what we've talked about—the rituals—in whatever way is least uncomfortable for you. Perhaps talking about 'superstitions' might work. It's up to you. But I think he can be a sort of safety valve for you."

"Okay. But one thing—do I need to talk about the thing with the kitchen the other day?"

"Not unless you want to. But I do think it's important for him to understand the potential problems with rituals. Tell him about the tapping. Tell him what you nearly started with touching the controls."

"I can do that," I said. "I guess it's a good thing we've been working together for four years without a hitch, though, or he might think it was pretty weird. I told him I'd call him tonight anyhow."

"Good. Now, anything else you'd like to talk about tonight?"

"Nope. Let's call it a day."

~!~!~!~

I got home and made myself a sandwich for dinner. I'd promised Gage I'd try to call him to let him know how the second trial with the academy engine went, so I did.

"_Hello?_"

"Hey, Gage. It's Stoker."

"_So, how'd it go?_" He was never one to mince words.

"Good. I go to see the guy tomorrow morning, and he's gonna sign me off."

"_Well, awright!_" he said. "_I knew you could do it. Excellent—you're a free man, huh?_"

"Uh, not exactly." I explained about the conditions.

"_That sucks,_" he said. "_I know you've been pulling a lotta OT lately._"

"Yeah. Well, I'll manage, as long as it's not permanent."

As I said that, I realized I might've put my foot in my mouth—another good reason to just keep it shut.

"How are _you_ doing?" I asked. "You sound a little better."

"_Yeah_," he said, suddenly not sounding so chipper. "_I guess. Off the hard stuff and back on the pills again. For now."_

I decided maybe it was time to be frank. "Hey, Johnny—how long they say you're supposed to be in the joint?"

"_I dunno_," he said. "_I gotta be able to get up and down stairs on the crutches, and right now—well, let's just say last time I tried that, puking was involved._"

"Cap said you're gonna be in a cast for a couple months. And out for another couple months after that."

"_Yep_," he sighed. "_That's about the long and the short of it. I just don't know what the hell I'm gonna do with myself that whole time, Mike. I honestly don't know. I mean, all the stuff I like to do—it's all real active, ya know? And if I just stay home and watch TV for six months—well, I'll be a vegetable by the time I'm all healed up_."

"Is there anything you've thought of maybe learning, someday, that you could learn sitting down?"

"_I dunno. I guess. Maybe. I s'pose I better think somethin' up, though. 'Cause I'm sure Roy won't want a carrot as a partner. Even if I do make it back_."

"Well," I said, "if I know you, you'll bust your ass to make it back. And I know at least five guys who'll help you any way we can."

"_Five_?"

"Uh, yeah. Cap, Lopez, Kelly, DeSoto, and me."

"_Oh—you were counting yourself._"

"Of course I was counting myse—" I was cut off by Gage's chuckling.

"_Just havin' a little fun with you, Stoker. Anyhow—the night nurse is coming in any second, so I better go. She's not nice, like Simmons from earlier. Who I think has a little crush on you. But we'll talk about that tomorrow. What time d'ya think you'll make it by?_"

I had to process that little bombshell before I was able to remember the next day's timing. "Uh, just before lunch. I'll bring something decent."

"_Great—thanks. See ya then._"

I hung up. Just what I needed. Another woman to let down gently with some little white lie or another. I always swore I'd never do it, but it was seeming like it might be time to get one of my female friends to be my fake girlfriend, because it was just getting ridiculous.

I started a pot of decaf, and sat down to call Cap while it brewed.

"_L.A. County Fire Department, Station 51, Fireman DeSoto speaking._"

"Hey, Roy. It's Mike Stoker."

"_Mike! I stopped by Johnny's room after a run today, and boy, you were out cold. How are you, anyhow?_"

"Oh, not bad. I was pretty stressed out, and worn out, but I'm doing a lot better." All true, but once again I felt guilty by evasion through incompleteness. "I'll be back next shift."

"_That's great! Say, thanks for keeping Johnny company today. I was surprised to see him back on the IV morphine, but he explained what happened_."

"He just needed the one dose. He's back on the pills now. I just talked to him—he didn't sound loopy or anything."

"_Good_," said Roy. "_I'll stop by after our shift tomorrow. But—you probably didn't call to talk to me. You need Cap_?"

"Yeah. Thanks. Good to talk to you."

"_You too—see you soon_."

I waited for the deeper voice I was expecting to come onto the line.

"_Well, Stoker! Do you have some good news for me_?"

"I sure do, Cap. I'll be back for our next shift. Day after tomorrow."

"_Great! Everything all worked out, then?_"

"Uhh … not exactly. If you have a minute, there's some things I should explain."

"_All right. Let me close my office door._" A short pause, and then he was back. "_Okay—go ahead, Mike._"

I took a deep breath. "I need to explain to you … damn it." I didn't have any idea how to do this. I should've rehearsed. I didn't even think about rehearsing. Shit.

"_Take your time, Mike_."

"Okay. I guess the best way to put this is … everybody's got some habits, superstitions, little routines that we do to make things go smoother, you know? And sometimes they're kind of crazy."

"_Sure—I know what you mean. Like Gage with his Smokey the Bear, and Chet with patting the dog when we get toned out to a structure fire_."

"Yeah … except, kind of what happens with me, is that I kind of get stuck on stuff like that. Like thinking that one thing causes another thing, even though they're not related. Shit, I'm explaining this badly."

"_Keep going, Mike. I think I see where you're going._"

"Well, the thing is, when I froze? It was because part of me believed that if I pulled that control, something bad would happen, because the last time I'd charged that line, was when that apartment building blew up—right at the same time I pulled the control."

"_I see,_" said Cap. "_But now you can do it, right? You did it with the engine at the academy, so no problem. Good._"

"Almost," I said. "Except—I tried it once before, yesterday, and I kind of started doing a weird sort of 'good luck' routine. And it would've stuck, and might've gotten to be a problem," I blurted.

"_No, I guess I don't see_," said Cap. I could practically hear his furry eyebrows knitting together. "_What do you mean by 'routine?_'"

"Well, I would kind of … tap all the controls in the row, before I started to pull the one to charge the line. Because I was getting stuck on the idea that since that worked once—because I did it the first time I charged the line successfully—it would work again. And I was gonna get really stuck on that, Cap. So I'd have to do that every single time I charged a line."

"_Okay—I think I do see. I worked with a guy once who had a couple habits like that, and he'd get really … agitated … if he couldn't do them. But I have to say, Mike—I've never seen you do anything like that before_."

"I only have one that I do—but I guess I'm kind of prone to these things, so the Doc wanted me to tell you, so … I guess so you could kind of keep an eye on me for a while. You know. Make sure I don't pick up any more crazy routines."

"_Sure, Mike. I can do that. But I'm puzzled._" There went the eyebrows again. "_You said you already have a weird routine that you do, but I've never noticed it._"

I explained the tapping-before-backing ritual. "And I tried just pretending that I was backing an engine, Cap, without doing that—and I couldn't. I just plain couldn't. And I can't start collecting this kind of thing—and the Doc says I'm prone to it—and I believe him. So if you can keep an eye on me, and if you see me doing anything weird …"

"_I understand, Mike. I'll let you know if I see you doing anything odd. Mind you, I can't devote my entire attention to it—not and keep my attention on what it needs to be on. But I'll do my best._"

"Thanks," I said, practically sobbing with relief that he didn't say how weird all of this was.

"_And I know you'll do your best, too_," he added.

"I will. And I swear, Cap—I didn't know I was losing it, till I lost it. I swear. If I ever thought I'd be a danger to any of the guys …" I couldn't continue.

"_I know, Mike. I trust you. I hope you know that_."

"I do. It's just … this is all so … embarrassing."

"_It's just between you and me, all right? No need to worry._"

Yeah, right. As if I could simply 'just not worry.' "Thanks. Really, Cap. I appreciate it."

"_No problem, Mike. We'll all be glad to have you back. I'll see you in a couple days, all right?_"

"Yeah. It'll be good to be back."

We ended our conversation, and I hung up, relieved the conversation was over, and that Cap hadn't thought the whole thing was freakish. Or, at least, hadn't _said_ that he thought the whole thing was freakish.

It was getting to be time to turn in, but I felt restless after my two conversations. I decided to make myself a list of everything I needed to do tomorrow. Sometimes making lists helped me not worry about things as much. Not that I really had much to worry about for the next day, but maybe it would take the edge off my caveman brain so I could get some sleep. After all, cavemen didn't make lists. I was pretty sure there were no cave paintings that were lists of things to do.

1. Another coat of paint in the bedroom.

2. Doc P.

3. Turn in paperwork to HQ.

4. Get lunch for Gage.

5. Rampart.

6. Get supplies for stripping bedroom floor.

7. Meatloaf for dinner.

8. Pack up more of L's shit.

9. On shift next morning.

There. Nothing to worry about. My whole day was laid out, in nine simple steps. One more day, and I'd be back at work. Just like a normal person.

**TBC**


	8. Stress, and Silence

Ch. 8: Stress and Silence

I set myself a kitchen timer while I was painting so I wouldn't be late to see Pritchard. I finished the second coat, and was touching up a few spots that looked a little thin when the timer went off. I wasn't totally satisfied with the evenness of the second coat, but I was out of time. I changed out of my painting clothes, and hit the road.

It took me nearly ninety minutes to get there in the traffic. Every now and then, I thought it would be good to sell the house and move closer to the city, but I knew I couldn't really afford it. Plus, since all the other guys on the shift lived near the station or even south of it, and I lived north by quite a ways, it was really inconvenient for the guys to get together at my place. Which was convenient for me. Though, at this point, it didn't really matter any more.

Huh. I could have the guys over some time, and I wouldn't get outed. No more relationship to hide, no problem. But, there might still be some clue, some sign. I'd have to think about it. I didn't _think_ there was anything in or about my house that would be … I don't know … questionable—but I'd have to be careful, anyhow. Probably wasn't worth the risk.

I parked the pickup at HQ, and made my way up to Pritchard's office. I waited in my usual spot, until a fellow came out on crutches, one empty pant leg folded and pinned up to the knee.

Well. _He_ wouldn't be going back to active duty. But the department was good about finding places at HQ for guys who were invalided out, but still wanted to work in the fire service somehow.

I tried to picture Gage, clomping out of Pritchard's office on crutches, going off to some desk job upstairs or downstairs.

I couldn't do it.

Marco, Chet, Roy, even Cap—I could imagine them all doing something else. But not him.

Pritchard's door opened, and he waved me in, interrupting my train of thought. I went on into the office, and took my seat. We exchanged pleasantries, and then he dove right in. I was still thinking about Gage coming out of this office on crutches, not about what I was supposed to be thinking about.

"So, Mike—you'll be going back to work tomorrow."

"Yep."

"How are you feeling about that?"

"Good."

"You weren't off work for long, so hopefully it will be easy to get back into the swing of things."

"Uh-huh."

Pritchard didn't say anything for ten or fifteen seconds. I got the hint.

"Sorry," I said. "I guess I was thinking about something else."

"Something relevant?"

"Maybe. I don't know."

"Well, only one way to find out."

I sighed. "So I guess I broke an unwritten rule by noticing, but I saw the last guy coming out of your office, and I thought of Gage. And how it'll be a total disaster for him if he can't get back to work. And then you started talking about how I was going back to work. So I guess I'm feeling bad that I get to go back so soon, and he doesn't."

"Hmm. You both have a lot of work to do. The difference is, you can go back to work before yours is done. He can't."

"Huh. I hadn't thought of it that way."

"I'm wondering if you're feeling guilty about what happened to him."

"We talked about this already, didn't we?"

"I think I mentioned the possibility once, but we ended up talking about other ideas—control, and anxiety. The thing is, Mike, it's fairly typical, when a group of people are all involved in an incident like that and one person gets badly hurt or killed, and others don't, for the people who came out unscathed to feel guilty about it."

"Oh."

"And I think you're particularly vulnerable to those feelings in this particular case. You had an important role, but your job kept you outside the building—out of the danger. And, your association, incorrect though it was, between pulling the valve control and the moment of the explosion, could certainly amplify any guilty feelings you might have had."

"Yeah. I guess I kind of knew that."

"And I see I need to take the direct question approach again. Are you feeling guilty about what happened to Gage?"

I'd thought about that for a bit while I was with Gage the other day. "My caveman brain is. My rational brain knows it's ridiculous. Gage, high on morphine, knew it was ridiculous. He couldn't even get the word 'coincidence' out, after several tries, but he still made himself perfectly clear."

"The thing is, even though it may be irrational, it's completely normal. I'd say a good two thirds of the men who come in here have had some kind of experience like that—where someone on their crew got hurt, but they didn't, and they're feeling bad about it. It's not always the main reason they came in, but just so you know, it's extremely common."

"Well," I said, "extremely common among guys who get sent to the shrink, at least."

"True," Pritchard said, nodding, "but still—trust me. It's not unusual."

"Okay. But actually—I don't think it's really a big problem for me. I think it's subsiding. The guilt. I mean, there's nothing like having the guy you're feeling guilty about getting hurt and not being able to help him tell you you're a stupid yellow-helmet probie idiot for thinking that."

"That's a colorful way for him to put it. But, if it worked, then I won't complain."

"People might say a lot of things about Gage, but nobody would ever say he's not colorful."

"Right. So anyhow, getting back on track. Here's a question for you: what _are_ your big problems?"

"Boy," I said, shaking my head. "You sure know how to put a guy on the spot. But I guess it's fair to say that question has been on my mind, lately. And I guess I kind of have two of them. Problems. Not minds. Although I guess I have two minds too—caveman and—"

"Mike. The problems."

"Sorry. Once I start talking, sometimes it gets away from me. But what I really mean, is, there's the whole business about how I get stuck on thinking about things over and over and over, and can't turn it off. And then there's needing to be in control of things—for things to be _right_—and getting nervous when I'm not in control, since things might not be right. To be honest, I guess I'm not all that worried about the thing with the rituals. I kind of think it's all part of the control thing. And if I can get a handle on that, I'll bet I won't pick up any more rituals."

"I think you're right about the rituals. But as for the rest of it—let me give you some words to think about. Overthinking, perfectionism, nervousness."

"Those ring a bell. Loudly," I admitted.

"All three of these things fit into something we talked about a little bit already. Do you remember, when I was telling you that you don't really fit all the criteria for Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, because I thought your problems were more generalized than that?"

"Anxiety," I recalled. "All three of those words are part of anxiety, aren't they."

"Exactly. And it's very common for people with anxiety disorders, which I _do_ think describes you, to have many but not all of the criteria for other anxiety-related disorders."

"Like the Obsessive-Compulsive thing."

"Yes. For instance, the ritual you have for backing up, and the problem you had the other night with the kitchen—those are more like OCD than 'plain' anxiety."

"But I don't think those things happen a whole lot. Not as much as—what were the three words you said? Overthinking, and perfectionism, and nervousness."

"Correct. It's important to note that you seem to be prone to OCD-like tendencies when you're under extra stress. And you've been under a lot of stress, lately. But I think we should start with working on your anxiety in general, as a sort of foundation for working on other things."

It made perfect sense the way he put it. And it also made me feel perfectly terrible. He'd come right out and said I had a 'disorder'—and what the hell did that mean? And that the disorder was causing other problems that were giving me misery.

I must have been thinking about that for quite a while, because Pritchard interrupted my thinking.

"What's going on right now?"

"You said you think I have an anxiety disorder."

"Yes. I think you do."

"I guess … I don't like how that sounds. It sounds like … like I really am crazy, or something. A disorder. It just sounds really serious."

"Well, it's not something that's a case of 'black and white.' It's all shades of gray. You can't say that these people over here all have trouble with anxiety, and those people over there all don't. But you can make an imaginary line, where one end of the line represents a person with no anxiety at all—which also isn't normal, by the way—and the other end represents someone who is paralyzed by their anxiety and cannot function in life or society. For a diagnosis of a disorder, you just have to be past a particular point on that line—really, where the anxiety gets in the way of your life in significant ways. And past that point, there's still quite a lot of line left."

That left me with an obvious question. "So I'm across that point on the line. How far towards the end to you think I am?"

"Look at it this way. You're thirty years old, and you've been quite successful in your profession. You've had at least one long-term relationship. You're generally able to do all the things you need and want to do in your life, correct?"

"Yeah—but I think maybe this anxiety thing maybe makes me not do them as well as I could."

"Possibly. And what else does it do?"

I had to think about that one for a minute, but I think I got where he wanted me to go with it. "Maybe makes me more miserable than I really need to be."

"Or, to put it another way, makes you unhappy."

"Yeah." I sighed heavily. "Yeah. It does. But, you know, I never thought about it being something I could do anything about. I mean, I guess it's just part of who I am."

"But if you could make it be a less dominating part—a part that doesn't get in the way of things you'd like to do—would you be willing to do some work to help change it?"

I didn't have to think too hard about that one. "Yeah. Yeah, I would."

"Good. Because I think you really can change some of the ways you react to things, some of the ways you think about things. I also think you were right, before, when you said if you could get a handle on the anxiety, you might be less prone to picking up new rituals—be less prone to some of those OCD tendencies. I think it's not a coincidence that your problem with the kitchen, and your almost developing a new ritual with touching the controls, came along with a lot of stress. Think out loud for a moment about some of the things that have been stressful for you lately."

"Well, the incident where Gage got hurt was stressful for our whole shift. None of us had gotten hurt badly enough before that there was any doubt they'd be able to come back. And, to be honest, the guilt part was really stressful."

"I'm sure it was. But go on."

"Well, then the whole freezing up business was stressful. And getting taken off work by Captain Stanley. And, well, this sounds bad, but it was stressful to get sent to see you."

"Are you still finding it stressful?"

"Uh, to be honest, I guess so. But at first it was because—you know. I'm a tough guy. I can take care of my life without help. All that bullshit. But now it's more because I'm starting to see that maybe I can change, at least a little, and the whole idea of changing is kind of stressful. Even though I want to do it," I added hastily.

"I understand. So it seems like maybe there was a chain reaction of stress that was sparked by the incident where Gage got injured."

"Yeah. I think that was it."

"But I think you're missing a big source of stress, Mike. Something that came even before the gas explosion. We've talked about it a bit."

Oh. That.

"Uh, well, I guess probably my ex moving out was pretty stressful," I said. "And it's been tough that half his stuff is still in the house, and thinking about what that means.

"You lived together for four years."

"Uh huh, and we were together for a couple years before that. So yeah, it was a long time. And really, for the year before he left, things … weren't great."

"That's stressful, too."

"Yeah. He kept pressuring me to give up my job, do something with regular hours—he'd always say, 'like a normal person,' which pissed me off to no end. And it's not like I was saying I loved my job more than I loved him, you know—'cause we did love each other—at least for a while—but … ah, I dunno. It was complicated."

"And you couldn't talk to anyone you knew about it."

"Certainly not anyone I work with, for obvious reasons. I have one good friend from my year at UCLA—she's a lesbian, so she knows what I'm talking about—and we could talk about it. That was it. I don't even think the guys at work really noticed I was stressed out. I mean, what was I gonna do, get quieter? Calmer? I guess that's probably what I did, come to think of it. Cap noticed—he said he could tell something was bothering me, and did I want to talk about it, and I kind of … um …"

"Kind of what, Mike?"

"I kind of laughed, actually—I mean, the very _idea_ of discussing this particular problem with anyone at work was just plain funny at that moment. 'So, Cap, I've been living with my boyfriend for four years, and he just moved to Boston a week after telling me that he got a job there and would I like to come with him and get a regular job with regular hours like a normal person.' Uh huh. The whole picture of talking about it was just completely absurd, so I laughed, and I must've sounded a little crazy. So he gave me this lecture about how people who bottle things up are the ones who end up burning out soonest in jobs like these—because, after all, how could my problem possibly be personal, right, since as far as they knew at the station, I _had_ no personal life of any account—and he said if I couldn't or wouldn't talk to him, would I at least promise him I'd talk to somebody. And I did. I talked to that woman friend of mine. She at least understood the whole problem of keeping work and personal lives separate. But anyhow—yeah. We're talking about stress—that whole thing with the ex was stressful. _Is_ stressful. But I'm working on it. Getting rid of the stuff. I think physically packing up his stuff, and putting in the garage where I can't see it—well, that's been really helpful."

"You know," Pritchard said slowly, "it's very common for people in this profession to have trouble in their relationships because of the stresses of the job. Very common. Firemen, policemen, and other intense jobs where some danger is involved, and where the job has to be done twenty four hours a day, three hundred and sixty five days a year—they all have very high rates of divorce."

"I didn't know that."

"And with a divorce, you have a legal agreement that you're bound to, that lays out exactly what belongs to whom, who pays what, et cetera. But if you weren't married, and the relationship ends …"

I finished for him. "You don't get everything neatly wrapped up."

"Exactly. Not that divorces are ever neat and tidy—but you don't have the advantage of that clarity, that closure. The piece of paper that says, 'this is over.' The piece of paper that says, 'these are my responsibilities, and these are the other person's responsibilities.' So I would imagine that your situation is even more stressful than a comparable situation with two married people, without children, who are divorcing."

I'd never even thought of it that way—just because we couldn't get married didn't mean that ending the relationship, and everything that came with it, was somehow simpler. It probably meant, like Pritchard said, that things were more complicated.

"There's one more thing I'd like you to consider, Mike. You said earlier that you don't feel like the fact that you're gay has anything to do with the problems at hand that caused you to freeze up at work the other day. I'm sure that's mostly true. But we're talking about stress right now. And I would say that it's probably a gigantic source of stress for you, that something about your very nature, something essential to who you are, has to be kept from the people you work with. When you were still living with your ex, you probably never even had any of your shiftmates over to your place. When talking about days off, you couldn't use the word 'we' without being questioned, but the word 'I' wasn't complete. The most significant person in your life was completely non-existent, as far as your co-workers went."

"Reason number one for Silent Stoker," I said. "If people learn not to expect you to talk much, they don't ask you a lot of questions you can't safely answer without lying."

"So you've developed a persona of a guy who's shy, or possibly aloof, or maybe even secretive. That's who you are at work. But it's not who you really are, is it?"

I shook my head. "No. It's not. But I don't really have a choice."

"I'm not going to try to tell you that you have a choice. If life were fair, you would. But life's not fair."

"No shit," I said drily.

"How did your ex handle the fact he had to be a complete secret?"

"He resented it. Even more, though, I think he resented that I wouldn't go with him to social occasions at his workplace. Just too risky."

"Again, I can't deny your lack of choice there."

"You know," I said, "pretty much the only kind of person I could ever be with, and not have the job and everything about it be a huge problem, would be another guy who's in a similar kind of job. A cop. A career military officer. Another fireman. As if there are actually gay men in these professions. Other than me, that is."

Pritchard rubbed his bearded chin between his thumb and forefinger.

"There are, Mike."

"Huh?"

"For obvious reasons I can't and won't tell you who they are, but I've met with at least five or six other firemen from this department who are gay. And I only ever meet a small fraction of the employees of this large agency."

"Huh. Well, I guess we'd all probably end up in this office for some reason or another, wouldn't we," I said sourly.

"That's not what I'm implying, Mike. First of all—I can tell you for certain there are other gay firemen. Cops. Soldiers. But also—what have we just been talking about?"

"Stress," I said. "Okay. I get it. Any guy in the fire department who's gay is going to be under constant stress. We're not just in the closet—we're in a closet with solid steel doors, and ten or twelve industrial-strength locks that only open from the inside. Totally firefighter-proof."

"Your defense mechanism is to be quiet, and private. Another defense mechanism I've seen is overcompensation—excessive discussion of real or made-up exploits with women, plus perhaps a thick layer of machismo added for good measure."

"Well, I don't think its fair for me to go out with women who are genuinely interested in me just as a cover. Though let me tell you, there would be plenty of opportunities. If I could take half the women who hit on me and pass them along to Gage, he'd be a very happy man."

"Do the other men at your station give you a hard time about your lack of dating stories?"

"I've always just been up front about not wanting to discuss my personal life. Not just dating, but _anything_ about my personal life. Because if it was just dating, they'd be suspicious for sure. For the first year or so, it was challenging. There was one guy who just wouldn't let it drop. But even he eventually gave up. So now I'm just Quiet Mike, Silent Stoker. And nobody gives me a hard time." I paused for a second. "Though there is this thing I'm not totally sure how I'm gonna get out of."

"Oh?"

"Yeah—Gage thinks the daytime nurse on his floor has a crush on me. Knowing him, by now, he's probably already got a date set up for us, even though I told him she really wasn't my type. Of course, I couldn't tell him how _much_ she really wasn't my type, or why. So," I sighed, "I'm going up to see him after this appointment, and I'm sure he's got some kind of disaster cooked up for me."

"What do you think you'll do?"

"Same as I do when women ask me out. I'll just politely decline, saying that I'm not in a position to be dating right now, and they usually figure I'm married or with someone, or whatever. Sometimes they'll egg me on, saying it's just for fun, but I just keep saying no. I mean, it's not like they can _make_ me go out with them."

Pritchard smiled. I imagined he was having a mental image of what that might look like. "No, they certainly can't. And I think your response is a good one for the circumstances."

"Yeah. I don't love the half-truths, like for instance when I told Gage that nurse wasn't my type, and he asked me what my type was, and I said 'taller and darker.' True, but not complete."

"But again, completely reasonable, given the circumstances."

"Yeah," I sighed. "But—you know. I like things to be right. And it's not right to lie, or tell a half truth."

"It's stressful for you, to have to be evasive."

"Of course it is," I snapped, and immediately regretted it. "Sorry."

"Not a problem—we're talking about things in your life that provoke anxiety, so it's natural for you to have strong reactions. But: back to the topic at hand. Here's the impression I get, Mike. I see that having to keep your personal life secret from your co-workers is incredibly stressful. However, I don't have the sense from you that your sexual orientation, in and of itself, is troublesome to you."

"It's not. Somehow—and I don't have any idea how or why it happened—but somehow, when I was around nineteen, I just sort of accepted that this is who I am. It's weird—I mean, for someone who's anxious like me, to be able to just accept _that_?" I shook my head. "Go figure. That's about the biggest puzzle in my life."

Pritchard tapped his pen on his notebook a few times, and then spoke slowly. "I would say, that by accepting your sexual orientation, you're putting yourself in control. You know it's not a choice you made. You know it's not something you can change. So acceptance is the logical way to take control."

My jaw dropped—literally. He was absolutely right. I sat there with my mouth open for a second before I could reply. "Uhh … you just solved a lifelong mystery for me in two seconds. Jesus."

"You might find him in the Chaplain's office, downstairs. I'm just someone who's studied human nature for an awfully long time. But I see that makes sense to you."

"Yeah. Yeah, it does."

"And I think what also makes sense, is that no matter how accepting you are of your sexual orientation, it's incredibly stressful that you have to hide your entire personal life from your coworkers in order not to reveal that aspect of yourself."

"That pretty much sums it up," I said.

Pritchard let me be quiet for a moment or two. I was starting to recognize this as his way of getting ready to change the subject. Like, if I didn't say anything else, I was giving him permission to change the subject. And boy, was I ready for a new topic, so I held my tongue.

"Mike, I want to give you a sense of what's going to happen from here on out. I'm pretty sure you're aware that there are no easy fixes for the problems you're experiencing."

I nodded.

He continued. "We'll talk about some things you can try. We'll figure out, together, what strategies and techniques work best for you personally to help decrease your generally high level of anxiety. We'll work in more detail on specific areas that tend to be most troublesome for you. We'll spend time talking about things that are stressful but not really changeable, like we were just talking about now, and try to find some ways for you to cope better with some of the stress. We'll set some goals—some measurable outcomes that will show you you're having success. And it's all going to be work."

"I know. I know I have things to work on."

"Good. Now, what questions do you have for me so far?"

"Well …" I hesitated, pretty sure I already knew the answer to my one question. "I guess I'm just wondering how long you think this will all take. Not that I'm trying to rush through," I added hastily, "but just so I have a sense for, you know, the scope of things."

"Again, Mike, you've found another question that can't be answered in black and white terms. We'll start out working pretty intensively, probably for a couple of months, and then after we've found some good strategies, ways of thinking, et cetera, that are working for you, we'll decrease the frequency of our visits, but keep working together for a while."

"Okay. That's about what I figured."

Pritchard nodded. "In the last couple of days, we've covered some really good ground. We've worked out what some of the main things are that seem to be factors in your short term and long term difficulties. You have names, now, for some of the problems you've been experiencing: stress, anxiety, and some OCD tendencies. Now, we're ready to start working on finding ways to work on some of those problems, so your work and life can be happier and more satisfying."

"Okay," I said. "I'm ready to do that." And I meant it. I knew it was going to be a lot of work, but the longer I spent with Pritchard, the more convinced I'd become that if my life was ever going to change, I had a lot of work to do. And I was also sure that Pritchard would be able to get me as far as I could go. "I'm ready."

**TBC**


	9. Elephants, and Things

Chapter 9: Elephants, and Things

I left Pritchard's office, and stopped by the Operations Division office to leave the sign-off form with my boss's boss's boss. The bored-looking secretary tore off the bottom copy of the form, and gave it back.

"You don't give me this one. Give it to your immediate supervisor," she said.

"Oh. Okay." I took back the copy of the form that I now knew was to go to Cap, and put it back in the large envelope I'd carried the original, unsigned form in. I was relieved that the form was now in the hands of the Division chief—or at least out of my hands, and on its way to his. Carrying that form even just down the stairs from Pritchard's office had felt like carrying ten thousand dollars in cash. That one form represented not just my livelihood, but proof that I wasn't a complete nut case. I suddenly wished that there were a copy of the form that I was supposed to keep for myself, to remind me of that. I thought of asking the secretary for a copy, but decided I'd rather find a Xerox machine somewhere on my own than see her eyes roll at my request.

I remembered seeing a coin-operated photocopier in the lobby at Rampart—I'd stop there on my way up to see Gage. I was almost dreading this visit, after what he'd said on the phone last night. He'd surely cooked up one of his crazy plans, and would try to throw me and Nurse Simmons together. But, as always, I'd find a way to deal with it that wouldn't out me.

I made a quick stop at a sub shop to pick up lunch for myself and Gage. I'd quickly gotten the picture that one of the worst parts of hospitalization for him was the food, which seemed like it was secondary in misery only to the injury or illness itself and the poor sleeping conditions hospitals provided. I picked up what they called a "small" soda for each of us as well. The larges had turned into gargantuan drinks—over a pint. At the rate they seemed to be growing, they'd be selling people a quart and a half in one cup by 1990.

I stopped by the photocopier, and made myself two copies of the form I'd brought with me. I wasn't exactly sure why I did that, but it made me feel better, so I didn't question it.

I waited in the lobby for the elevator, and when the door opened, I was greeted by four familiar but exhausted-looking faces.

"Stoker!" Chet bellowed. "How's it goin', man? You comin' back to us soon? I sure hope so, 'cause your sub's a hopeless buffoon."

"Tomorrow," I said, as much to Cap as to him. "I can come back tomorrow."

Cap raised his impressive eyebrows, and I held up the envelope. He nodded, understanding what I had in there and that I didn't want to let the others know what it was.

"I wouldn't go as far as Chet in my assessment of your sub, Mike, but it'll sure be good to have you back," he said.

"I'll second that," said Marco.

"Can I third it?" Roy asked.

"You can do whatever you want, Roy, after putting up with Brice for the last two shifts," Cap said.

"Uh oh," I said. Brice was an interesting character. He was _way_ more into control of things than I was, but unsubtle in the extreme. And absolutely rigid in his ideas. He was also perfectly willing to tell everyone exactly what he thought about everything, like he'd somehow never learned the rules of conversation. Great paramedic, in terms of the technical aspects, but nobody liked working with him, and I could see why.

"Well, we all oughta get home," Roy said. "Johnny's up there—he said you were coming later."

"Yep," I said.

"It's been a fascinating conversation, as usual, Stoker, but I'm with Roy there," said Chet. "I gotta get home and do what I can with one tired, tired, tired day off. See ya tomorrow, pal."

The rest of the crew headed for the lobby doors, as I went the opposite direction. I took the elevator up to Gage's floor, hoping against all hope that today might be Nurse Simmons' day off.

It wasn't.

She looked up brightly. "Well, hello, Mr. Stoker. You just missed the rest of your shift-mates. I'm glad you came by at this particular moment; Mr. Gage has been pretty unhappy today. He was really cheered up by his visitors, and he really didn't want them to go, but they apparently had a really hard shift."

"I'm not surprised he's down again," I said. "I think the thing with the sneeze yesterday felt like a real setback to him." I paused, wondering whether she'd be able to answer my next question. "Was it?"

"No, I don't think he's any worse off today than he was yesterday at this time. But he's back on a dose of pain medication that actually controls the pain, and he really doesn't want it to need as much as it takes to work."

"It takes what it takes," I said, not sure what I meant by that.

She made a snorting sound. "I suppose it does, doesn't it. But anyhow—can you talk to him?"

"Uh, I'm not really sure what you mean," I said.

"Talk to him about what's actually going on. He said something yesterday after you left about how you were the only one on the shift who actually had the guts to bring up the topic of the elephant in the room—that he's really hurt, and that he's really shaken by the whole thing."

"Okay," I said. "I'm not really sure he wants to talk about it, or if I'll be any good at it, but I'll see if I can get that door open somehow. Without, you know, actually prying. Because he doesn't like prying—I can tell you that for sure."

"Thanks," she said, letting out a breath. "The orthopedist treating him is the best, but only with the bones, if you know what I mean," she said, tapping the side of her head.

"Yeah, I actually do," I said. "Anyhow—" I gestured to his room.

"Go on," she said. "And—if you can, try to let me know when you head out."

"Okay," I said.

I knocked on the door, and heard Gage holler "C'mon in!"

"Hey, you just missed the rest of the guys," he said, as I came in.

"Saw 'em in the lobby," I said. "They looked really tired."

"Yeah, they had a house fire just before midnight, and they were mopping up almost till the end of the shift."

"Was it a tough one?" I asked, which was our station's code for "were there fatalities or serious injuries."

"Everyone got out, but they said the building was one of those big old houses that's been split up into lots of apartments, so there's weird stuff behind all the walls, and dead space where the fire can hide—you know."

"Yep. You think you've put the fire out, but it just keeps coming back. Then you're doing overhaul, and you find a hundred thousand hot spots." I chose my concluding words carefully. "And you think it's never gonna be over."

"Yeah, I know that feeling," Gage said, staring out the window.

I paused for a second, and decided to take the direct approach, since I'd already succeeded in getting him to think about his plight. "What are they saying to you—the docs, that is—about your leg, Johnny?"

He sighed, and didn't say anything for a few seconds. I thought maybe I'd blown it—pushed too hard right away. But I hadn't.

"Well, you already heard the part about ten to twelve weeks in the cast, and another couple months of recovery after that," he said.

"Yeah, I heard that already."

He looked out the window again.

"They also said there might be some nerve damage—well, actually that there _is _some nerve damage—in my lower leg and foot. And that sometimes people recover from that, and sometimes they don't."

"What does that do—nerve damage, I mean? You know how I am with the medical stuff."

"I might … have some permanent weakness in my ankle and foot. From where the sharp end of the bone went through some nerves. That would pretty much be it for me, career-wise. I mean, you can't have gimpy firemen. And they won't be able to tell for quite a while."

"And that's the worst part, isn't it," I said quietly. "Not knowing."

"Man, you got that right. I mean, if they told me right now, 'sorry, Gage; you've had it—' well, that'd suck pretty bad, but somehow I'd find a way to move on, you know?" He shook his head. "But lying here, with nothing to do, nothing to think about except the 'what ifs'-that's what's really gettin' to me."

The mental picture I was forming of Gage getting stuck on that unpleasant thought, going over and over it in his mind, and not being able to shut the thought off—that didn't sit right with me. Not at all. And he went on, solidifying the picture in my mind.

"Usually I'm _real_ good at not thinkin' about what I don't wanna think about. I just kinda say, okay, Gage, quit it. And I can stop. But not for this. The valve is stuck open, ya know?"

I nodded vigorously. "You bet I do."

"I dunno, I think if I could just get outta here, not be lying around in the hospital, ya know? Maybe I'd be able to find the shutoff valve again."

"I'll bet you would," I said. I took another leap. "What helps?" I asked. "What helps you to not think about it?"

"Havin' other people around, you know, to talk to. If I'm talkin', I can't really think about somethin' else. And when I'm home, I think it'll be easier, just 'cause I'll be someplace normal. I mean, I don't have any illusions that I'll be able to do a whole lot when I first get home, but just bein' someplace normal—someplace not _here_—well, it can't hurt, right?"

"Can't hurt at all." I made a mental note to make sure Roy or someone he could relate to was at his place with him for a couple hours after he got sprung, just so he could start out at home not sitting there all alone. Not get stuck right back into the endless loop.

"But anyhow," he said.

"Anyhow, I said.

We sat there in silence, each waiting for the other to open a different door.

He suddenly pointed at me.

"You," he said, "are gonna go out with Nurse Simmons. Whether you like it or not."

I groaned. "C'mon, Gage; I told you she's not my type."

"So what?" he countered. "She's interested—I can tell. Take her out. Have a good time. Be a perfect gentleman."

Well, the last part wouldn't be too hard, at least. "Seriously, Gage. I'm not going out with her."

"Well why not? Why not, just for fun? It doesn't always have to be serious, or true love, or whatever."

"Look. I'm just not in a good position to be dating right now. At all. Okay?"

He squinted at me. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"But why not just for fun? Just have a good time, you and her, you know?"

I even knew this was coming, but did I have a good answer? No. "I can't, all right? If it's a man and a woman, going out together, it's automatically a date, unless they've agreed otherwise, which isn't what I think you have in mind here. Unless they're cousins or something. She's _not_ my cousin, and I'm not dating now. Period."

He looked at me blankly.

I sighed. "Look. I don't talk about my personal life much at the station," I began.

"Understatement of the century, Mike."

"But here's how it is. I was with someone for quite a while. We split up a few months ago. It's been a really hard adjustment. Plus there's all the other shit in my head I've been dealing with. So I'm not dating now, because it wouldn't be fair to whoever I was going out with. End of story."

"Oh," he said. "I, uh, didn't even know any of that."

"That's because I didn't tell anyone."

"Okay," he said, simply. "Sorry. I'll lay off."

I practically fell off my chair, the same way as if you've been handling a charged line, and the pressure unexpectedly drops, and you kind of lurch forwards, because you've been working so hard not to get knocked over backwards.

"Thanks," I said, finally. "I appreciate it."

"I didn't mean to pry," he said.

"I know you didn't. I don't give people much choice, though."

"You're entitled to your privacy."

"Everyone is. Sorry if _I_ pried, earlier," I said.

He waved me off. "Nah. Actually, you're the only one of the guys to touch this whole thing with a twelve-foot pike pole. Not Cap; not even Roy. It's like they're all afraid I'm so fragile that I'll just … fall to pieces or something, if they talk about the most incredibly obvious thing going on here. They all come in here and cheer me up and all, but you? You get it. You haven't ever been hurt real bad on the job, but you get it."

Meet honesty with honesty, right? "I guess it's fair to say I'm damaged, though, in my own particular way," I said, tapping my head with a finger.

"Huh," he said, not disputing my remark. "But you said last night that the shrink guy was gonna sign you off as fit for duty. Didn't he?"

"He did. But, as he put it, you and I both have a lot to work on. It's just that I can work on my stuff and still be on the job, and you can't." I pushed my long sleeves up—it was starting to get hot in the room, or maybe the conversation topics were making me nervous.

"But you _are_ going back tomorrow. That's good. No sense in—" he stopped short. My eyes darted over to meet his and see what had caught his attention.

Oh. He was staring at my left forearm, where there was a clear fingerprint pattern of bruising.

"Shit. Did I do that?"

"Uh …"

"Jesus. Sorry."

"It's not a big deal. You were out of your head with pain, and you didn't know what you were doing. It's nothing."

He didn't say anything, so I reassured him again. "It's nothing."

"Sorry," he repeated.

"It's okay."

He rubbed his hands over his face, suddenly looking tired again.

"Hey, I brought subs from that place up the street. You wanna eat?" I held up the bag.

"Nah," he said dully. "You go ahead, though."

I put the bag down again, and frowned at him. "Who _are_ you, and what have you done with John Gage?"

He looked away. "You know, I don't really remember anything."

I didn't need to ask what he meant. By mentioning pain, I apparently opened another door.

"Just flashes, really," he continued. "Smells, sounds. Not good ones, either."

"I was there. It's probably better if you don't remember," I said. "But I'll bet it's disturbing to have those flashes, without, I dunno, a context, a complete memory, to put them into."

He nodded. "I remember the smell of gas—at least that one makes sense."

"Yeah—I was outside the collapse zone the entire time, and I could smell gas too. It was a huge leak."

"And … well, this is gonna sound weird."

"I can take weird," I said. "Trust me on that one."

"Well, the sound I remember … it's some guy screaming. And that's all I remember, until I really came to in the ambulance on the way here. Just the smell of gas, and then the sound of some poor bastard screamin' his head off," he said, still looking away.

I didn't say anything—not yet.

"And it was me, wasn't it. Nobody else got hurt, everyone was out before it blew, and it wasn't like it was a terrified crowd all yellin' together. It was just the one guy. Me. Right?" He finally looked back at me.

"Yeah, Johnny. It was you," I said quietly. "You were semiconscious for a few minutes, a little while after Cap and Marco brought you out."

"Okay. Thanks. I needed to know—I'm not sure why, but I did," he said, looking at the wall next to the bed.

"I understand. Believe me, I understand. When weird shit is happening in your head, it helps to know _why_. I've been learning a lot about that lately." I stopped to think for a second about how true that really was. "A _lot_."

"So I guess in my case, I needed to know that what I thought was a memory really was one, and not just, I don't know, a nightmare or something." He paused. "Not like this whole thing _isn't_ a nightmare."

"You're making progress, though. I can see it. The first two times I came in here, with all the guys, you were so doped up you didn't know who you were or what day it was. You were also lying there so still it almost seemed like you were paralyzed. And I'll bet it was because it hurt too damned much to even _think_ about moving. Am I right?"

He nodded.

"But today, you're shifting your weight around, sitting up and lying back again, and moving your left leg all over the place. Hell, Gage—you're fidgeting. Just like normal."

He snorted. "Normal. That seems awfully far away right now."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know what you mean."

We didn't say anything for a little while, having each retreated into our own thoughts.

"So how 'bout those sandwiches? Now that I think about it, I guess I am kind of hungry."

"Me too," I said, pulling the sandwiches and drinks out of the bag. "Let's chow down."

~!~!~!~

"Gin," said Gage. "Hah! I finally got you."

"Just a lucky hand, pal. Next time will be different." I glanced at my watch. "Holy shit—five o'clock. Next time is gonna have to be another day."

"Geez, wow—we killed the whole afternoon! And you've gotta work tomorrow."

"Yeah—we'll see how that goes. Hopefully I can make it through my first shift back without freaking out."

"You'll make it."

"You know what? I think I will."

I tidied up the room—somehow we'd managed to make a mess just with sandwiches, drinks, snacks, and a deck of cards.

"Hey, uh …" Gage started.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. Thanks for, I guess, not ignoring the elephant in the room."

"And you too," I said. "Thanks for not just pretending I didn't just miss a week's worth of shifts because I freaked out."

"Sorry about the thing with Nurse Simmons," he said.

"No worries. Well, as long as she doesn't ask me out. She wanted me to try to catch her before I left."

"You could sneak out down the back stairs," Gage suggested.

"Nah—I prefer to meet my problems head on. Get them over with; not let them fester."

"Smart guy. I bet you, I don't know, steaks after I get outta here, that she asks you out if you don't avoid her."

I laughed and shook my head. "No bet, Gage. We can make some steaks anyhow, though."

"Try to let her down gently, huh?"

"Oh, don't worry—I always do."

He looked at me oddly. Whoops.

"I mean—I always try to be polite."

"Ah. Yeah, you do. Anyhow—have a good shift tomorrow. Lemme know how it went, all right?"

"Sure thing. Bet the guys and I'll stop by after."

"Great. Well, I'm gonna rest up a bit before they make me get up on the crutches again. Yippee."

"Hey—progress, right?"

"Yeah," he said, almost to himself. He looked up. "Yeah. Progress," he said, in a firmer voice. "See ya later, Stoker."

I went out to the corridor, half hoping Nurse Simmons was nowhere to be found, but there she was, at the nurses' station, filling out some paperwork.

"Hi. You wanted me to check in before heading out?"

She looked up. "Oh. Yes. How's he doing?"

"Better, I think. Better than yesterday. That's for sure. We talked about some stuff, and I think maybe that helped a little."

"Good," she said, with a satisfied smile.

"Was there anything else?"

"Well," she said, glancing up and down the corridor to make sure nobody was around, and confirming in my mind what I thought was going to happen. "I was also wondering if you were maybe free for dinner some evening soon. My treat. I know this great Greek place, where they have baklava you wouldn't believe."

I had the answer to this one all planned out, and had even mentally rehearsed it a few times.

"Gee, I'm really sorry—it's terrific of you to ask, but I'm not in a position to be doing any dating right now." There. Nicely vague, but a completely clear "no thanks."

"Oh," she said, blushing slightly. "Sorry—Mr. Gage practically threw you at me, so I thought maybe …"

Okay, so there goes the possibility of being completely vague without hurting her feelings. "I, uh, think he didn't quite realize my situation, though. It's not his fault—I just don't yak about my life a whole lot, so he didn't know. Sorry about that."

"Well, whoever she is, lucky her." She looked down the corridor and saw a flashing light over a door. "Duty calls. See you later, Mr. Stoker."

"Have a good night," I said, as I turned to go.

Awkward, I thought, but not horrifyingly so. She could blame it on Gage, and then I could blame it on me. Perfect outcome.

In the elevator on the way downstairs, I pulled the day's list of tasks out of my pocket to see what I still had left.

6. Get supplies for stripping bedroom floor.

7. Meatloaf for dinner.

8. Pack up more of L's shit.

9. On shift next morning.

I decided to skip number six, since it was already after five and a lot of the hardware stores wouldn't be open. I already had the ingredients for number seven, so I headed home and threw a meatloaf in the oven. While it was cooking, I started on number eight. I packed another couple of boxes, including rigging up a flat box for some framed posters of his from the office/guest room. I carried the boxes to the garage, and returned to the house to decide which room I should do next.

I stopped just inside the kitchen door when I realized there was no room to do next. I'd done them all.

I walked through the house, looking at every surface, every visible object. I opened every closet, every cabinet, every drawer.

Everything in the house was mine.

It seemed a little emptier, somehow, when I thought of it that way. But the empty space—not that there's ever a lot of it in a 900 square foot 2-bedroom house—was exactly what I needed. I hadn't totally realized, until just this moment, how weighted down I'd felt by being surrounded by objects belonging to someone who used to be the most important person in my life, but was no longer in it at all. And now that his things were also no longer in my life, I felt, for the first time, that maybe I could move on.

At some point. Not today—I wasn't lying when I told Gage, and Nurse Simmons, that I wasn't in a position to be dating. I was way too much on the rebound, and dealing with a lot of other shit as well. It wouldn't help me any to dive into something else too soon. Wouldn't be fair to the other guy, either.

For now, what I needed was to start working through things with Pritchard, and get my mental self into some decent kind of shape. I kept thinking about what Pritchard had said, about how Gage and I both had a lot of work to do, though I could be on the job while I worked on my problems, but he couldn't. I was grateful I'd be able to carry on with my life and my job—to have normality all around me—while I started working through my problems.

I had a normal dinner, by myself, in my house that was now occupied only by me and my things. I did everything my normal way, and tried not to think too hard about whether my normal way was weird or obsessive. I went to bed at my normal, early time, so I could get up at my normal time and go to work for the first time in a week.

I thoroughly surprised myself by falling asleep without worrying about going to work the next day.

**TBC**


	10. Work, Blood, and Water

Chapter 10: Work, Blood, and Water.

I parked my pickup truck in the lot behind Station 51. I was pleased to see Cap's old Ford sedan already sitting in the lot—it would be easy to hand him my paperwork and talk about what was going on if he was already sitting in the office.

I approached the open door of the office he shared with the two captains from the other shift. The apparatus bay was empty, which meant I'd find only Captain Stanley in the office, since B-shift was obviously on a run. Cap was busy at his desk with some of his interminable paperwork, so I tapped on the door to get his attention.

"Mike! C'mon in."

I closed the door on my way in, and sat down across from Cap's desk.

"Here's your copy of the paperwork," I said, handing the form across the desk.

"Terrific! We're glad to have you back. Your sub was wearing me out with his macho bullshit." Cap shook his head. "Perfectly decent at his job, but just couldn't shut up. Went on and on and on about his awesome workouts at his terrific gym. _This_ many pounds on the bench press, and _that_ many pounds on the deadlift—and if I heard the words 'awesome' or 'huge' one more time, I was gonna smack him."

"I think I can manage to avoid those words."

"Good—because he got Chet saying 'awesome' too."

Cap looked over the paperwork. "No OT, huh?" He turned around and unlocked the filing cabinet behind him, and pulled out a folder—presumably my file—and set it on the desk in front of him.

"Not for a while. He wants me to be around people who'll keep an eye on me. For the stuff we talked about the other day. The weird rituals. And anything else that comes up."

"That's fine." Cap lowered his eyebrows slightly. "You worried about anything, in terms of the job?"

I shook my head. "To be honest, Cap, I think it'll be really good for me to get back to work. It's normal, you know? And really don't think I'll have any problems. I mean, no problems that I didn't have already."

He looked at me intently. "You wanna tell me about any of those problems you have already? You don't have to—just if you want to."

Since he was technically responsible for me, I thought it was fair to give him the basics. I sat silently for a few seconds while I thought about how to phrase it.

"Pretty much what's going on is that I get wound up about things, stuck on things. I overthink certain kinds of things—not work things; they're all straightforward and unambiguous. I get worried about things that aren't worth worrying about, and I get too perfectionistic sometimes, and that can get out of hand. It's all been going on for a long time. I guess I just didn't really realize how out of hand it was getting."

Cap nodded slowly. "Okay. I'll keep my eyes open. But if it's been going on for a long time, and I haven't seen it before, I don't know what I'd really be looking for."

I didn't really know, either. "I don't know either. Just, well, anything that seems weird or excessive, I guess. Probably a good way to put it would be … I can't describe it, but I know it when I see it now. Sorry—that doesn't help much," I said sheepishly.

"Well," Cap said slowly, "if you know it when you see it, maybe I'll know it when I see it. I'll for sure keep my eyes open." He opened the file on his his desk, and thumbed through it until he found the right place for the form I'd given him.

As I watched him with my file, I realized there was something I'd forgotten to take care of. Or maybe that I just hadn't wanted to think about taking care of.

"Uh, Cap?"

"Uh-huh?"

"Would it be possible for me to change my emergency contacts, as long as you have that file out?"

"Sure." He found the appropriate page and passed it across to me.

I found the "emergency contacts" table on the "personal information" form. There were only two lines filled in—one for my parents, and one for my ex. I drew a single black line through the line that read "Larry Morrison—friend, housemate—(h) 555-5973, (w) 555-8749." I passed the form back to Cap. He looked at it, and frowned slightly. "Oh, your housemate moved out?"

"Yeah. He moved to Boston, a couple months ago, actually."

"Sorry to hear that—were you guys close?"

"Yeah." I needed to change the subject, badly. "So that's why I've been doing so much overtime—all the expenses of living on your own, you know?"

The conversation didn't go in the direction I was hoping it would. "No luck finding a new housemate?"

"Uh … I'm gonna try it on my own for a while. See how that goes." _Please, please, please, no more questions_, I begged silently.

Cap looked back at the form. "The department really wants you to have two emergency contacts. Is there anyone else we could call beside your parents?"

I thought about it for a second. "Sure." I filled in the line below the one I'd crossed out. 'Serena Villanueva—friend—555-1452.' My college friend, the woman I got to be friends with at UCLA, who I was able to talk with some after my ex moved out. She'd be fine with being an emergency contact—I'd check with her later just to be sure. I passed the form back to Cap.

He looked at the new entry. "Good," he said.

"Well, I guess I'll go make some coffee, since I can tell by the smell that the stuff in the pot now has been there for hours." That was my normal routine for arriving at work, and I wanted to stick with it.

"Sure thing—carry on."

I stood up to go. "Oh—by the way, who's subbing for Gage today?"

"Guy by the name of Dan Baker, who I don't know. He usually runs with Squad 47, which I think is up in your neck of the woods, right?"

I nodded. "Yep. My house in in Station 47's district." I paused, and took a leap. "I was thinking, now that I have my place to myself, maybe I would have everyone over. I know it's way out of the way, but still."

"That'd be great, Mike. Let me know, and I'll try to be there."

"I was thinking, maybe I'd hold off till Gage was out of the hospital."

"That'd be nice. Say, he said you guys have been talking a lot. That's great."

"Yeah—he's pretty discouraged right now, Cap. I was thinking, when he gets out, we all oughta kind of watch out for him. You know, till he gets back to work. And especially when he first gets home."

"Good thought. He won't be able to drive for quite a while, either. Not even if he drove an automatic transmission, since it's his right leg." Cap made a note on a pad on his desktop. "I'll bring it up at roll call."

"Great. So, I guess I'll go make that coffee. See you at roll call."

~!~!~!~

The morning and early afternoon were pretty mundane. We got a few of our usual types of calls—alarm activations, a small kitchen fire that the homeowner had put out with an extinguisher by the time we got there, and a rescue call where they thought they'd need manpower for extrication, but didn't. Marco was chef for the day, and was planning a Mexican-style macaroni and cheese with a couple side dishes for dinner. We cleaned up after lunch, and had a quick run to a dumpster fire. We were getting ready to look over some plans for some new buildings in our district, when our tones dropped.

"_Station 51, motor vehicle accident with injuries and entrapment. 1453 East Freemont, cross street Delaware. 1-4-5-3 East Freemont. Time out: 1912._"

We raced to the scene—well, made good time without risking causing _another_ accident—and were there in just over five minutes.

It was a three-vehicle accident—your classic scenario where someone loses control of their vehicle, and runs off the road, and while he's out of control, causes two other cars to crash into each other. Someone's tank had ruptured, so there was gas all over the place. Luckily, there was a hydrant across the road from the main part of the scene, so I charged up the reel line for Marco and connected up with the hydrant while he ran off the booster tank.

After a few minutes, Cap trotted over. Marco was rolling up the reel line. The booster tank gauge was reading full, so I figured I would be done at the pump panel shortly.

"Mike, when the tank's full, I need you to give Roy a hand at one of the cars, okay, pal? He'll need a backboard, and another set of hands to get this guy onto it. Chet and Marco are with Baker at the other car."

"Sure thing. Tank's almost full, so I'll shut down here and be right over with a backboard."

When the tank was full, I closed the tank fill valve, throttled the engine down, and took the engine out of pump gear. I grabbed the backboard, and trotted over to the sedan that Roy and Cap were working on. There was only one person in the car—the driver—and Roy was in the car putting a cervical collar on the victim, from the back seat, while Cap was just finishing cutting open the driver's-side door. Baker, Chet and Marco already had their victim backboarded and on the grass.

"Mike, I need you to get in the car with Roy. The dash is pushed forward pretty far, and there's just no way I'm gonna be able to fit in there."

"Sure thing, Cap." Sometimes, Cap's height worked against him, and this was one of those times.

I squeezed into the front seat, next to the unconscious driver.

"What's the scoop, Roy?"

"Guy's vitals aren't looking so great. We've gotta get him out now."

I knew the routine for rapid extrication—since we didn't know whether he had spinal injuries, we had to assume he did, and keep his spine as straight as possible as we slid him onto the backboard. My job, from the passenger's seat, would be to manage his hips and legs. Cap would be in charge of the torso. A bystander had been drafted by Cap to hold the head end of the backboard while we extricated the victim. Roy, who was in charge of keeping the patient's neck from moving, would call all our movements.

"Okay," said Roy. "On three, we'll turn him to his right, and Mike, you'll get his legs straight. Deep laceration to and probable fracture of the left lower leg, so be as careful as you can there."

"Got it," I said. Great. A deep laceration meant blood, for sure. Oh well. Nothing to be done.

Cap slid the foot end of the backboard under the victim's rear, and I crammed myself as far down into the footwell as I could. I grasped both pants cuffs with my right hand—I could feel warm moisture as I did so—and grabbed the waistband of the man's trousers with the other hand.

Roy began his count. "One, two, three!" I swung the man's feet up to the passenger's side of the seat, turning him at the hips at the same time, in one smooth movement. Cap took over holding the man's head, and he did the next count.

"Lower him down on three. One, two, three." We all worked together to lower him onto the part of the backboard that was under him already.

"Okay," Cap said to the man holding the head end of the backboard. "Next step is that we slide him up the board towards your end. You got it securely? It's gonna get heavy."

"I got it," the man said.

"All right, boys. On three, we'll slide him up. One, two, three." Working together, we slid him smoothly up the board, keeping his spine absolutely straight. I held onto the foot end of the backboard, and eased it out of the car. The four of us carried the backboard over to the tree lawn, where Roy had his equipment set up and waiting on the sidewalk. We set the man down, and got out of Roy's way.

My hands felt strange—I looked down at them. They were completely covered with blood—dripping, in fact. I instantly felt nauseous and faint at the same time. I dropped to my knees, in the tree lawn, and heaved my guts out, right into the perfectly positioned storm drain. Nice. Right in front of a bunch of gawking bystanders. Great PR, Stoker. Just great.

Cap noticed. Of course. He hauled me up—not unkindly, just quickly—and steered me over to the engine, where he sat me down on the running board. He grabbed a bucket, and opened the purge valve by the intake to fill the bucket with water. He set the bucket of water next to me, took my hands, which I was staring at blankly, and dunked them in the water.

"C'mon, pal. Wash those hands off."

I snapped out of it, and started scrubbing the blood of my hands in the bucket. I could see the water turning pink, and my gorge rose again. I gagged, but didn't throw up.

"Hang on," said Cap. He dumped the water down the gutter, and refilled the bucket. I repeated the scrubbing, and this time the water didn't turn pink. I took my hands out, and they looked fine. I could feel my stomach settling.

"You okay, Mike?" Cap looked at me carefully.

"Yeah. Sorry."

He kept looking at me, like he was trying to decide something.

"Honest, Cap. It's nothing new, remember? This has happened before—a couple times a year." I grabbed my canteen, which I kept stashed in a compartment under my seat, and rinsed my mouth out and spat into the gutter. "I'm fine. Really."

He nodded. "Okay. Don't break anything down here, yet—we'll need the reel line to wash the scene down after the towing company gets rid of the cars."

Three tow trucks were waiting behind the engine. Cap and I surveyed the scene, moved a few large or sharp pieces of debris out of the way, and waved the tow trucks through. I picked up all the extrication equipment, checked it all to make sure it was good for our next run, and loaded each piece of equipment into its appropriate compartment.

One ambulance, and then the second, exited the scene. The tow trucks soon had the cars ready to go, with any large parts that had come off tucked inside the vehicles. Except for the car that had gone off the road and hit a tree—probably the car whose driver would be at fault for the accident, though the sheriff's deputy who was talking with various witnesses would sort that out—the cars looked totaled.

Once the cars were gone, Chet took the squad over to Rampart, while Marco and Cap and I swept up broken glass and smaller car parts, and sprayed the scene down one more time with the reel line. I topped the engine's booster tank off, broke down the supply line, and Marco and I loaded the supply hose back onto the truck while Cap was giving some details to the deputy. It was just starting to get dark—and I realized I was starving. Losing the last of my lunch probably didn't help with that.

When I was getting ready to back the engine into the apparatus bay, I could see from the corner of my eye that Cap was looking down towards my feet, just to see my little ritual. I didn't disappoint him. Right foot on brake, left on clutch, tap tap tap, shift into reverse, and then I backed her up. Flawlessly.

Marco went to the kitchen and threw the mac and cheese into the oven, and then came back and got started hosing the engine down. I'd join him in a minute, but there was something I had to take care of first.

I headed through the bathroom, and into the locker area. I grabbed my toiletries bag, and took my nail brush out of it. I could still see some blood crusted around the edges of my fingernails, and that simply wouldn't do. I took the brush to a sink, ran the hot water, and soaped the brush up. I scrubbed, and scrubbed, rinsing every so often to check the results. After a couple minutes, my hands looked better, but still didn't _feel_ quite right. I rinsed, resoaped, and scrubbed some more.

"Mike."

I jumped, and looked into the mirror to see who was behind me. Cap.

"You okay?"

"Uh, yeah. Why?" I asked, confused.

"You've been in here almost fifteen minutes."

Shit.

I turned off the water, and rinsed my hands and the brush.

"Let me see," Cap said.

I showed him my hands. He looked at them carefully, and looked back up at me.

"There's no more blood. You know that."

"But … but …"

"But what, Mike?" Cap said gently. "You had blood on your hands, and you washed it off. It's gone. That's all. There's nothing wrong."

My heart started pounding. I could feel the caveman brain taking over, telling me to be afraid, even though there was nothing to fear.

I looked at my hands, really carefully. I looked again. They were red, but not with blood—probably just because I'd been scrubbing them for over ten minutes straight. The blood was gone, and I didn't need to worry about it. I tried one of the things Pritchard had suggested towards the end of our last session, when we'd actually started talking about some ways to work on anxiety. I thought about someplace I felt calm—sitting on my deck with a cup of coffee, on the morning of a day off. I could feel my heartbeat slowing, and was able to slow my breathing down. I told the caveman to shut the hell up and get the hell out of my head—I was busy.

"You're right. There's nothing wrong at all."

"Attaboy." Cap clapped me on the shoulder. I put my things back into my locker, under his watchful eye, and we returned to the rest of the station. Cap headed to the office, and I went to the kitchen to see if Marco needed a hand with dinner.

"There you are!" Marco said as I entered the kitchen. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd flushed yourself down the toilet or something."

"Sorry I left you to clean Big Red all on your own. I, uh, kinda got sidetracked."

"In the bathroom?" Marco shook his head. "Man, I don't even wanna know."

No, he really didn't, I agreed silently. "Need a hand with anything in here?"

"Nope—just about finished up. Broccoli's cookin' on the stove, and the mac and cheese is pretty much ready, so as soon as the others get back, we can eat."

"All right. I'll set the table." At least that was something I could do.

As I finished laying out plates and silverware, I heard the squad backing into the bay, and a minute later, Roy, Baker, and Chet came into the kitchen, Cap trailing close behind them.

"Man, that smells _awesome_!" Chet said. Cap winced at that last word.

"Perfect timing, gentlemen. Dig in," said Marco, as he put the casserole onto the trivet I'd set out on the table.

~!~!~!~

As usual, I had no trouble sleeping at the station. I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. It seemed like only minutes later when the tones blasted us all awake.

"Station 51, Station 10, Truck 87, report of a smoke odor, third floor, 2159 Pinegrove, 2-1-5-9 Pinegrove, cross street Adams. Time out: 0318."

Okay, so it had been over five hours, not five minutes, I thought as I pulled my suspenders over my shoulders and fastened my pants. I gave the map a quick check to make sure the place was where I thought it was, and to see where the nearest hydrant was, because "report of a smoke odor" could mean anything from yesterday's burnt dinner to today's fully-developed room-and-contents fire, ready to spread upwards and outwards. I fired up the engine, and pulled out as soon as the door was fully open.

As we got closer to our destination, I was pretty sure we'd be dealing with something closer to my second example than the first. It was a still, humid night, and the odor of smoke—and not the pleasant smell of woodsmoke—hung in the air. As we pulled around the corner, we could see flames licking from a third-floor window in a large house. I stopped at the hydrant on the corner, and Marco hopped out and grabbed the hydrant bag, tossing it next to the hydrant before he returned to the engine to pull the end of the supply line off the hosebed. He wrapped the end around the hydrant, and gave me the sign to pull away.

I pulled the engine slowly past the building so Cap could get a good look at the three visible sides of the structure while he was on the radio giving dispatch a preliminary report.

"L.A., Engine 51. We have a three-story residential structure, with the third floor well involved. Send us a full second alarm assignment."

Station 10's engine was pulling up just as we parked. Two of their men hopped out and masked up, ready to start a search as soon as we had a line in the front door. Their aerial ladder took the space we'd left it, right in front of the building, as their engine prepared to supply them with water from the next hydrant.

Chet hopped down from his seat and started stretching a two-and-a-half to the front door. I parked the engine just past the house, and headed around the back to find the next set of couplings on the supply line. I pulled off maybe twenty-five more feet of supply line, and uncoupled the hose from what was left on the truck. I connected the line to the intake on the side of the engine by the pump panel, and looked down the block to where Marco was at the hydrant. I gave him the signal to open the hydrant. As soon as the water was flowing, he trotted back to the scene, joining Chet at the nozzle of the attack line. Chet gave me the signal to charge the line.

I turned to the pump panel, and throttled up the engine to get the pump's discharge pressure where I wanted it to be. I was ready to charge the line, so I—

Fuck.

It was the same line I'd frozen up on before. I'd have to use the same control. My heart was pounding, and my breathing was fast. But this time the caveman was right—there _was_ danger. I should run away, or I should freeze and be ready to fight.

But I'm not a caveman. The caveman hadn't yet figured out how to start fires, let alone put out really big ones. But I had. I was smarter than the caveman, and I knew what to do.

For the second time that shift, I told the caveman to shut the hell up. Yeah, there was danger, but there'd be a whole hell of a lot more if I didn't do my job. So I put my hand straight onto the control to charge the line, and pulled.

I watched as the hose filled with water, changing from a useless, flat noodle to a powerful, lifesaving tool. The pair from 10s successfully forced the front door open just as the line finished charging. I had done my job, so now the men entering the building could do theirs. In our business, water is life. This time, I got the water where it needed to be, right on time. And I knew that the next time, and the time after that, I would do the same.

Sure—I still had plenty of work to do. But for the first time, I really believed what Dr. Pritchard had said—that I could do that work, make those changes, while I was doing my job. I believed it, because I'd just proven to myself, beyond a doubt, that my rational brain was just a little bit stronger than my caveman brain. And I knew that the harder I worked, the stronger my rational brain would get.

It might take a while, but I'd be fine.

**The End.**

A/N: Thanks for reading! I particularly thank those of you who took the time to comment.


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